...gie her a Haggis!

The Caledonian Society Burns Night dinner was canceled this year due to inclement weather. I missed the annual reciting of the address to a haggis, so, in honor, I have posted it below with a modern translation following....enjoy and....gie her 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 wordy o’ a grace As lang’s 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. His knife see rustic Labour dight, An’ cut you upwi’ ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrailsbright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive: Deiltak the hindmost! on they drive, Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve, Are bent lyke 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 mak her spew Wi’ perfect sconner, Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view On 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 fieldto dash, O how unfit! But mark the Rustic, haggis fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread. Clap in his walie nievea blade, He’ll mak 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 ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer, Gie her a haggis! -Robert Burns The Translation 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 through your poresthe 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 weak as a withered rush (reed) His spindle-shank a good whiplash His clenched fist.the size of a nut. Through 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!