Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftain o' the Puddin-race!
Aboon tha a'  ye tak your place,
                Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of 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 gusing entrails bright
		Like onie ditch:
An 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 tive,
		Bethankit hums.

In there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricasee was make her spew
		Wi' perfect sconner
Looks down wi' sneering, scorfu' view
		On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! I see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
		His nieve a nit;
Thro' bluidy flood or field to dash,
		O how unfit!

Bur mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blad,
		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 skinking ware,
		That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
		Gie her a Haggis!