The Complete Works of Robert Burns: Containing his Poems, Songs, and Correspondence. Allan Cunningham

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VIII.

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TO A HAGGIS.

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      [The vehement nationality of this poem is but a small part of its merit. The haggis of the north is the minced pie of the south; both are characteristic of the people: the ingredients which compose the former are all of Scottish growth, including the bag which contains them; the ingredients of the latter are gathered chiefly from the four quarters of the globe: the haggis is the triumph of poverty, the minced pie the triumph of wealth.]

      Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,

       Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!

       Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,

       Painch, tripe, or thairm:

       Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace

       As lang’s my arm.

      The groaning trencher there ye fill,

       Your hurdies like a distant hill,

       Your pin wad help to mend a mill

       In time o’ need,

       While thro’ your pores the dews distil

       Like amber bead.

      His knife see rustic-labour dight,

       An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight,

       Trenching your gushing entrails bright

       Like onie ditch;

       And then, O what a glorious sight,

       Warm-reekin, rich!

      Then horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,

       Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,

       ’Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve

       Are bent like drums;

       Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,

       Bethankit hums.

      Is there that o’er his French ragout,

       Or olio that wad staw a sow,

       Or fricassee wad mak her spew

       Wi’ perfect sconner,

       Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view

       On sic a dinner?

      Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

       As feckless as a wither’d rash,

       His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,

       His nieve a nit;

       Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash,

       O how unfit!

      But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,

       The trembling earth resounds his tread,

Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He’ll mak it whissle; An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned, Like taps o’ thrissle.

      Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,

       And dish them out their bill o’ fare,

       Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware

       That jaups in luggies;

       But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,

       Gie her a Haggis!