thro' blody flood or field to dash,
o how unfit!
but mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
the tremblih resounds his tread.
his walie nieve a bde,
he'll mak it whissle;
an' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,
like taps o' trissle.
ye pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
and dish them out their bill o' fare,
auld sd wants nae skinking ware
that jaups in luggies;
but, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer
gie her a haggis!