Broad Scots Dialect
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 o’ 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 sleight,
Trenching your
gushing entrails bright,
Like
onie ditch;
And then, Ach!
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 made 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,
Ach! 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'll 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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English Translation
Good luck to you
and your honest, plump face,
Great chieftain
of the pudding race!
Above them all
you take your place,
gut,
stomach-lining, or intestine,
You're well
worth a grace
as long as my arm.
The overloaded
serving tray there you fill,
Your buttocks
shaped like a distant hilltop,
Your wooden
skewer could be used to fix a mill
if need
be,
While through
your pores your juices drip
like liquid gold.
His knife see
the serving-man clean,
And then cut you
up with great skill,
Making a trench
in your bright, gushing guts
To form
a ditch,
And then, 0h!
What a glorious sight!
Warm, steaming, and rich!
Then, spoonful
after spoonful, they eagerly eat,
The devil will
get the last bit, on they go,
Until all their
well-stretched stomachs, by-and-by,
are bent
like drums,
Then the head of
the family, about to burst,
murmurs “Thank the Lord".
Is there a
pretentious soul who, over his French ragout,
Or Italian
cuisine that would make a pig sick,
Or French stew
that would make that same pig ill
with
complete and utter disgust,
Looks down with
a sneering, scornful attitude,
on such a meal? (as Haggis)
Poor devil! See
him over his trash!
As feeble as a
withered bullrush,
His skinny leg
no thicker than a thin rope,
His fist
the size of a nut,
Through a river
or field to travel,
Completely unfit!
But look at the
healthy, Haggis-fed person!
The trembling
earth respects him as a man!
Put a knife in
his fist,
He'll
make it work!
And legs, and
arms, and heads will come off,
Like the tops of thistle.
You Powers who
look after mankind,
And dish out his
bill of fare,
Old Scotland
wants no watery, wimpy stuff
That
splashes about in little wooden bowls!
But, if You
will grant her a grateful prayer,
Give her
a Haggis!
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