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Happy Birthday oor Rab...

Address to a Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

Address to a Haggis Translation

Fair and full is your honest, jolly face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!

Above them all you take your place,

Stomach, tripe, or intestines:

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 trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,

Your pin would help to mend a mill

In time of need,

While through your pores the dews distill

Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

His knife see rustic Labour wipe,

And cut you up with ready slight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm steaming, 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;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.

Then spoon for spoon, the stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,

Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by

Are bent like drums;
Then old head of the table, most like to burst,

'The grace!' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,

Or fricassee would make her vomit

With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view

On such a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre 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,
O how unfit!

Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,

His thin legs a good whip-lash,

His fist a nut;

Through bloody 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 make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,

Clap in his ample fist a blade,

He'll make it whistle;

And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off

Like the heads 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 bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,

That splashes in small wooden dishes;

But if you wish her grateful prayer, 

Give her [Scotland] a Haggis!