I
FAIR fa’ your honest, sonsie face, jolly
Great chieftain o’ the puddin-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place, Above
Painch, tripe, or thairm: Paunch; small guts
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang’s my arm.
II
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill, buttocks
Your pin wad help to mend a mill skewer
In time o’ need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
III
His knife see rustic Labour dight, wipe
An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight, skill
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
IV
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive: spoon
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve bellies; by-and bye
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, burst
‘Bethankit!’ hums.
V
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow, sicken
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner, disgust
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
VI
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash, weak; rush
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit; fist; nut
Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
VII
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, ample
He’ll make it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned crop
Like taps o’ thrissle.
VIII
