First, catch your wee beastie

First, catch your wee beastieLooking forward to dinner!

[b]Address to a Haggis[/b]

[i]Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, [/i]
[i]Great chieftain o the puddin’-race![/i]
[i]Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,[/i]
[i]Painch, tripe, or thairm:[/i]
[i]Weel are ye worthy o’ a grace[/i]
[i]As lang’s my arm.[/i]

[i]The groaning trencher there ye fill,[/i]
[i]Your hurdies like a distant hill,[/i]
[i]Your pin wad help to mend a mill[/i]
[i]In time o need,[/i]
[i]While thro your pores the dews distil[/i]
[i]Like amber bead.[/i]

[i]His knife see rustic Labour dight,[/i]
[i]An cut you up wi ready slight,[/i]
[i]Trenching your gushing entrails bright,[/i]
[i]Like onie ditch;[/i]
[i]And then, O what a glorious sight,[/i]
[i]Warm-reekin, rich![/i]

[i]Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:[/i]
[i]Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,[/i]
[i]Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve[/i]
[i]Are bent like drums;[/i]
[i]The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,[/i]
[i]’Bethankit’ hums.[/i]

[i]Is there that owre his French ragout,[/i]
[i]Or olio that wad staw a sow,[/i]
[i]Or fricassee wad mak her spew[/i]
[i]Wi perfect scunner,[/i]
[i]Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view[/i]
[i]On sic a dinner?[/i]

[i]Poor devil! see him owre his trash,[/i]
[i]As feckless as a wither’d rash,[/i]
[i]His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,[/i]
[i]His nieve a nit;[/i]
[i]Thro bloody flood or field to dash,[/i]
[i]O how unfit![/i]

[i]But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,[/i]
[i]The trembling earth resounds his tread,[/i]
[i]Clap in his walie nieve a blade,[/i]
[i]He’ll make it whissle;[/i]
[i]An legs an arms, an heads will sned,[/i]
[i]Like taps o thrissle.[/i]

[i]Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care,[/i]
[i]And dish them out their bill o fare,[/i]
[i]Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware[/i]
[i]That jaups in luggies:[/i]
[i]But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,[/i]
[i]Gie her a Haggis[/i]

[i]          [/i]        Robert Burns

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