.

Fair is your honest happy face

Great chieftain of the pudding 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 platter there you fill

Your buttocks like a distant hill

Your skewer would help to repair a mill

In time of need

While threw your pores the juices emerge

Like amber beads

His knife having seen hard labour wipes

And cuts 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 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 rift (burp)

Be thanked, mumbles

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 over his trash

As week as a withered rust (reed)

His spindle-shank a good whiplash

His clenched fist�the size of a nut.

Threw a bloody flood and battle field to dash

Oh how unfit

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

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!

.

.

Much thanks to the McKean family and company of Scotland for that tidbit! (do you realize how impossible it is to find pictures of haggis online? It's a major pain...but worthwhile!)

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