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 graceAs lang's my airm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,Your hurdies like a distant hill,Your pin wad help to mend a millIn time o need, While thro your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.
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!
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.
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 viewOn sic 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!
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.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,And dish them out their bill o fare,Auld Scotland wants nae skinking wareThat jaups in luggies:But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,Gie her a Haggis!
For sure fairer words were never spoken and with this as inspiration no less?
