|
Address to a Haggis by
Robert Burns
|
|
Original in Scots (also called Lowland
Scots or Lallans) |
English Version |
|
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the
puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak yer place,
Painch, tripe, or
thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my airm. |
Bless your honest happy face,
Great chieftain of the
sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe or
guts:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as 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. |
The groaning platter there you fill,
Your buttocks like a
distant hill,
Your skewer would help to repair a mill
In time of
need,
While through your pores the juices emerge
Like amber beads.
|
|
His knife see rustic Labour dicht,
An cut you up wi ready
slicht,
Trenching your gushing entrails bricht,
Like onie ditch;
And
then, Oh what a glorious sicht,
Warm-reekin, rich! |
See the rural labourer prepare his knife,
And cut you up
with great skill,
Digging into your gushing insides bright,
Like any
ditch;
And then oh what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich! |
|
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the
hindmaist, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are
bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.
|
Then spoon for spoon They stretch and strive:
Devil take
the last man, on they drive,
Until all their well swollen bellies
Are
bent like drums;
Then, the old gent most likely to burp,
'Be thanked'
mumbles. |
|
Is there that ower his French ragout,
Or olio that wad
staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect sconner,
Looks
down wi' sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner? |
Is there that over his French Ragout,
Or olio that would
sicken a pig,
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect
disgust,
Looks down with a sneering scornful opinion
On such a dinner?
|
|
Poor devil! see him ower 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,
Oh how unfit! |
Poor devil, see him over his trash,
As weak as a withered
reed,
His spindle-shank a good whiplash,
His clenched fist.the size of a
nut:
Through a bloody flood and battle field to dash,
Oh how unfit!
|
|
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth
resounds his tread,
Clap in his wallie nieve a blade,
He'll make it
whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.
|
But take note of the strong haggis fed Scot,
The trembling
earth resounds his tread,
Clasped in his large fist a blade,
He'll make
it whistle;
And legs and arms and heads he will cut off,
Like the tops of
thistles. |
|
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! |
You powers who make mankind your care,
And dish them out
their meals,
Old Scotland wants no watery food
That splashes in
dishes:
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her a Haggis!
|
