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The Selkirk Grace from the venerable bard ......

    Some hae meat, and canna eat,
    Some wad eat that want it;
    We hae meat, and can eat
    And sae the Lord we thankit.


Address to the Haggis

         

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' trissle.

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!

 

And, an English translation:


A blessing on your honest, hearty face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, ttripe, or chitlins,
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 skewer would help to mend a mill
If time of need,
While through your pores the flavors
distill
Like amber bead.


His knife, see rustic labor wipe,
And cut you up with ready skill,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like any ditch,
And then, 0h! What a glorious sight!
Steaming-hot, rich!


Then, each with spoon in hand, they
stretch and strive,
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Until all their very swollen stomachs
soon,
Are bent like drums,
Then the old goodman, just about to
burst,
In thanks, asks.


Is there anyone who after eating French
ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricasse that would make her throw up
With absolute disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful
attitude,
On such a dinner? (as Haggis)


Poor devil! See him after his trash!
As wek as a withered reed,
His leg like a whip cord,
His fist a nut,
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
Oh how unfit!

But note the rustic, haggis-fed!
The trembling earth echoes his tread!
Thrust in his ample fist a blade,
He will make it whistle!
And legs, and arms, and heads will lop,
Like tops of thistles.


You Powers that make mankind your
care,
And dish them up their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery menu
That slops in wooden bowls!
But, if you want her grateful prayer,
Give her a Haggis!

 

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