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 graceAs lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,Your hurdies like a distant hill,Your pin wad help to mend a millIn time o' need,While thro' your pores the dews distilLike 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 lyke drums;Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,"Bethankit!" 'hums.
Is there that owre his French ragoutOr olio that wad staw a sow,Or fricassee wad mak her spewWi' perfect sconner,Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' viewOn sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him ower 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 wareThat jaups in luggies;But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,Gie her a haggis!