Address to a Haggis is a Scots-language poem written by Robert Burns in 1786.[1] One of the more well-known Scottish poems, the title refers to the national dish of Scotland, haggis, which is a savoury pudding. The poem is most often recited at "Burns suppers", Scottish cultural events celebrating the life of Robert Burns. The assembly will stand as the haggis is brought in on a silver salver, preceded by a bagpiper. The host or a guest will then recite the poem while slicing open the haggis at the right moment with a ceremonial knife.[2]
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' 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![3]
Translation:
English translation
Good luck to you and your honest, plump face,
Great chieftain of the pudding race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or bowels:
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 pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
And cut you up with ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich!
Then spoon for spoon, they stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all their well-swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums;
Then old Master, most like to burst,
"Thanks be!" hums.
Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her spew
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?
Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His fist a nut;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off,
Like heads of thistles.
You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery stuff
That slops in bowls;
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her a haggis!
