When was to a haggis written

Is there that o're 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? Poor devil!

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread. Clap in his wallie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whistle; An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thristle. Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinkin ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, Gie her a haggis!

Fair full your honest, cheerful face, Great chieftain of the meat-pudding 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 deep dish 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 labor sharpen And cut you up with ready skill, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like any ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm steaming, rich! Then, spoon for spoon, they stretch and strive: Devil take the hindmost! Is there one that over his French ragout Or stew that would sicken a sow, Or fricassee would make her regurgitate With perfect disgust, Looks down with sneering, scornful view On such a dinner? Clap in his mighty fist a blade, He'll make it whistle; And legs and arms, and heads will chop off, Like tops of thistle.

You Powers that make mankind your care, And dish them out their bill of fare, Old Scotland wants no watery soup That slops about in two-handled bowls; But, if you wish her grateful prayer, Give her a haggis! Here's the Selkirk Grace that's recited in Scots before the Burns' Supper… Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat, and we can eat, And sae let the Lord be thankit.

Standard English: Some have meat and cannot eat, And some would eat that want it; But we have meat and we can eat, And say let the Lord be thanked. At the end of the celebration, everyone stands, holds hands, and sings Auld Lang Syne , which was also written by Robert Burns. Many thanks to Xavec for contributing this poem and explaining its significance in Scotland. Photo of Haggis, neeps and tattie is from Wikipedia.

Thanks so much! Our books feature songs in the original languages, with translations into English. Many include beautiful illustrations, commentary by ordinary people, and links to recordings, videos, and sheet music. Your purchase will help us keep our site online! Visit our store. Featuring sheet music and links to recordings! As a result Burns and Haggis have been forever linked.

This particular poem is always the first item on the programme of Burns' suppers. The haggis is generally carried in on a silver salver at the start of the proceedings. One of the invited artistes then recites the poem before the theatrical cutting of the haggis with the ceremonial knife.

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 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 belyve Are bent like drums; The auld Guidman, maist like to rive, 'Bethankit' hums.

Aboon them a' ye tak yer place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o' a grace As lang's my airm. Bless your honest happy face, Great chieftain of the sausage 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 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 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 pores the juices emerge Like amber beads.

His knife see rustic Labour dicht, An cut you up wi ready slicht, Trenching your gushing entrails bricht, Like onie ditch; And then, Oh what a glorious sicht, Warm-reekin, rich! See the rural labourer prepare his knife, And cut 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, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmaist, on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, 'Bethankit' hums.