Robbie Burns

For fellow Scots! Happy Burns Night!A wee tribute here to one amoung us gifted in verse and heart of the homeland. Statue of Robbie Burns. Address to a HaggisFair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,Great Chieftan o’ the Puddin-race!Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,Painch, tripe or thairm:Weel are ye wordy o’ a graceAs lang’s my arm.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 distilLike amber mead.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!Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive:Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyveAre bent like drums;Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,Bethankit hums.Is there that owere his French ragout,Or olio that wad staw a sow,Or fricassee wad mak her spewWi’ perfect scunner,Looks down wi’ sneer