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Fair fa your honest sonsie face
Great Chieftain of the puddin’ race
My word Mr Haggis
You’re a handsome devil!
Abune them a' you tak your place
Painch Tripe or Thairme
You're ranked first in the pudding index
Weel are you worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm
You deserve a lengthy
eulogy on your qualities
The groaning trencher there you fill
Your hurdies like a distant hill
You completely fill the serving dish.
Indeed you resemble a hill seen from a distance
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need.
The wooden skewer fastening your casing
Could prove useful in many D.I.Y. jobs
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber beed
The juices released by cooking
have a fine golden quality
His knife see rustic labour dight,
And cut you up wi' ready sleight
See the agricultural labourer sterilise his knife
By wiping it on his sleeve
And make a lateral incision along your length
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like ony ditch
And then o what a glorious sight
Warm reeking rich
Allowing the filling to escape,
At the same time releasing an appetising aroma
Then horn for horn they stretch and strive
Deil tak the hindmost on they strive
The participants, using their spoons,
Help themselves
Till a' their weel swall'd kites belive
Are bent like drums
And auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.
Until they have had more than enough
And the senior man present, who is likely to burst
Can only groan his thanks.
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Is there that owre his french ragout
Or olio that would staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi ' perfect scunner
Looks down with sneering scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
Is there anyone who eats food from a delicatessen,
Food which would upset the stomach of a pig,
Despises a meal like this?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash
As feckless as a wither’d rash
His diet would make him skinny and useless
His spindle shank a guid whiplash
His nieve a nit
His thigh bone as thin as a whip
His fist the size of a hazelnut
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash
O how unfit
Incapable of braving the rush hour at Waterloo station
But mark the Rustic haggis fed
The trembling earth resounds his tread
See the difference of
the agricultural labourer
Who has been fed on haggis
He is so big and fat he could be mistaken
For an American
Clap in his waley nieve a blade
He'll mak it whistle
An’ legs an' arms an' heads will sned
Like taps o' thrissle
Put a sharp implement in his massive hand
And he will use it to slice off legs, arms, and heads
Like scything thistles.
Ye powers who mak mankind your care
You members of the Department of Social Security
And dish them out their bill of fare
Who are responsible for meals on wheels
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
Scottish Senior Citizens don't want consommé
That jops in luggies
That spills over the edge of the plate
But if you want her grateful prayer
But if you want her genuine thanks
Gie her a Haggis
Put Haggis on the menu. |
Tony Blair* is visiting an Edinburgh hospital. He enters a ward full of patients
with no obvious sign of injury or illness and greets one. The patient
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