TO A HAGGIS.
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The vehement nationality of this poem is but a small part of itsmerit. The haggis of the north is the minced pie of the south; bothare characteristic of the people: the ingredients which compose theformer are all of Scottish growth, including the bag which containsthem; the ingredients of the latter are gathered chiefly from the fourquarters of the globe: the haggis is the triumph of poverty, theminced pie the triumph of wealth.] Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,Great chieftain o' the pudding-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 slight,Trenching your gushing entrails brightLike onie 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 belyveAre bent like drums;Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,Bethankit hums. Is there that o'er his French ragout,Or 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 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 stinking wareThat jaups in luggies;But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,Gie her a Haggis! * * * * *
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