address to a haggis
fair fa' your ho, sonsie face,
great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
aboon them a' yet tak your pce,
painch, tripe, or thairm:
weel are ye wordy o'a grace
as ng's my arm.
the groaning trehere ye fill,
your hurdies like a distant hill,
your pin was help to mend a mill
in time o'need,
while thro' your pores the dews distil
like amber bead.
his knife see rustic bht,
an' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
treng yushirails bright,
like ony ditch;
and then, o what a glorious sigh
Address To A Haggis(1/3)