To a haggis...

Today is Burn's night, and we're having haggis for supper, as one should when one lives in Scotland. It's noteworthy because it'll be the first time I've had haggis on Burn's night, after only recently discovering that I like it! Who knew it was so tasty? We (probably) won't be doing the more elaborate bits of Burn's night ritual, e.g. piping it into the dining room or stabbing it with a skean dhu, but we might just manage a verse or two of the address...

To a Haggis, by Robert Burns

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 lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

Your hudies 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-reeking, 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 owre his French ragout,

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad mak her spew

Wi perfect scunner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view

On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

As fecl;ess as a wither'd rash,

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,

His nieve a nit;

Tho' bluidy 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 make it whistle;

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 gratfu' prayer,

Gie her a Haggis!