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Robert Burns - Address To A Haggis
Work rating: Medium

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 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 strech 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 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` 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 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!
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