Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns - Scots and English

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' yet 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 was 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 owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
  Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
  On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckles as wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
  His nieve a nit;
Thro' blody 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' hands will sned,
  Like taps o' trissle.

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!

Hear the address read here and here

A blessing on your honest, hearty face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
  Stomach, ttripe, or chitlins,
Well are you worthy of a grace
  As long as my arm.

The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your skewer would help to mend a mill
  If time of need,
While through your pores the flavors distill
  Like amber bead.

His knife, see rustic labor wipe,
And cut you up with ready skill,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
  Like any ditch,
And then, 0h! What a glorious sight!
  Steaming-hot, rich!

Then, each with spoon in hand, they stretch and strive,
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Until all their very swollen stomachs soon,
  Are bent like drums,
Then the old goodman, just about to burst,
  In thanks, asks.

Is there anyone who after eating French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricasse that would make her throw up
  With absolute disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful attitude,
  On such a dinner? (as Haggis)

Poor devil! See him after his trash!
As wek as a withered reed,
His leg like a whip cord,
  His fist a nut,
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
  Oh how unfit!

But note the rustic, haggis-fed!
The trembling earth echoes his tread!
Thrust in his ample fist a blade,
  He will make it whistle!
And legs, and arms, and heads will lop,
  Like tops of thistles.

You Powers that make mankind your care,
And dish them up their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery menu
  That slops in wooden bowls!
But, if you want her grateful prayer,
  Give her a Haggis!

There is another English version of the poem at The World Burns Club