Canadian Bagpipe Address To A Haggis Lyrics

Address To A Haggis Lyrics

Fair fa your honest, sonsie face,

Great chieftain o the puddin-race!

Aboon them a ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel
are ye wordy of a grace

As langs my arm.



The groaning
trancher 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 ye 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-swalld kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;

Then auld Guidman,
maist like to rive,

Bethankit! hums. 



Is there that owre his
French ragout,

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricasse 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 witherd rash,

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,

His
nieve a nit;

Thro bluidy flood or field to dash,

O how unfit!



But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,

The trambling earth resounds
his tread,

Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

Hell make it
whissle;

An legs, an arms, an heads will sned

Like taps o
thrissle.



Ye Powrs, 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!