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Address to a Haggis

Today in Masonic History we present Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns.

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 
Painch, tripe, or thairm: 
Well are ye wordy o' a grace 
As lang's my arm.

The roaning 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 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 ragout 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricasse wad mak her spew 
Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scorfu' 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' 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 ware 
That jaups in luggies; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, 
Gie her a haggis!