Poetry of Robert Burns
To a haggis
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 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 sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like ony 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 skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!
A selection of Poems, Ballads and Songs
- Ae fond kiss
- Auld Lang Syne
- Ye Banks and Braes
- To a Mountain Daisy
- A man’s a man for a’that
- The Selkirk Grace
- Scots wha hae
- To a louse
- Address to a Haggis
- To a mouse
- Death and Doctor Hornbook
- My love is like a red red rose
- Green grow the rashes O’
- Rantin’, rovin’, Robin
- Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw
- Tam O’ Shanter