Address to a Haggis (annotated)

by Robert Burns

For other versions of this work, see Address to a Haggis.

Original text	IPA pronunciation guide (Central West Scots like Burns)	Idiomatic translation
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race! Aboon them a' ye tak yer place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o' a grace As lang's my airm.	fer fo̜ jur onəst sonse fes gret ʧiftən o ðə pudɪn res əbun ðəm o̜ ji tak jər ples penʃ trəip or θerəm wil ar ji worde o ə gres əz laŋz məi erəm	Nice seeing your honest, chubby face, Great chieftain of the sausage race! Above them all you take your place, Belly, tripe, or links: 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.	ðə gronɪn trɛnʃər ðer ji fɪl jur hʌrdez ləik ə distənt hɪl jur pɪn wad hɛlp tu mɛn ə mɪl ɪn təim o nid ʍəil θro jur porz ðə djuz dɪstɪl ləik ambər bid	The groaning platter 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 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!	hɪz nəif si rʌstɪk lebər dɪxt ən kʌt ju ʌp wɪ rɛde slɪxt trɛnʃɪn jur gʌʃɪn ɛntrelz brɪxt ləik one dɪʧ ən ðɛn o ʍat a gloreəs sɪxt warəm-rikɪn rɪʧ	His knife see rustic Labour sharpen, And cut you up with practiced skill, Trenching your gushing entrails 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.	ðɛn, horn fər horn ðe strɛʧ ən strəiv dil tak ðə həinmest on ðe drəiv tɪl o̜ ðer wil-swaləd kəits bələiv ar bɛnt ləik drʌmz; ðɛn o̜l gɪdman mest ləik tu rəiv bəθankɪt hʌmz	Then, spoon for spoon, they stretch and strive: Devil take the hindmost, on they drive, 'Til all their well-swollen bellies soon Are tight as drums; Then old Master, most likely to burst, 'Thanks Be' hums.
Is there that ower 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?	ɪz ðɛr ðat ʌuər hɪz frɛnʃ rəgu or oleo ðat wad sto̜ ə su or frɪkase wad mak hər spju wɪ pɛrfək skʌnər luks dʌun wɪ snirɪn skornfu vju on sɪk a dɪnər	Is there one, that over his French ragout, Or olio that would give pause to a sow, Or fricassee that would make her spew With perfect loathing, Looks down with sneering, scornful view On such 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 field to dash, Oh how unfit!	pur dɛvɪl si hɪm ʌuər hɪs traʃ az fɛkləs az ə wɪðərd raʃ hɪz spɪnəl ʃaŋk ə gɪd ʍɪp-laʃ hɪz niv a nɪt θro blʌde flʌd or fil tu daʃ o hʌu ʌnfɪt	Poor devil! See him over his trash, As feeble as a withered rush, His spindly leg a good whip-lash, His fist a nit: Through bloody flood or field to dash, Oh how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his wallie nieve a blade, He'll make it whissle; An legs an arms, an heads will sned, Like taps o thrissle.	bʌt mark ðə rʌstɪk hagɪs fɛd ðə trɛmblɪn ɛrθ rəzʌunz hɪz trɛd klap ɪn hɪz wale niv ə blɛd hil mek ɪt ʍɪsəl ən legs ən arəmz, ən hidz wɪl snɛd ləik taps o θrɪsəl	But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his sturdy fist a blade, He'll make it whistle; And legs and arms, and heads will cut, Like tops of thistle.
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!	ji pʌuərz, ʍa mak mankəin jur ker ən dɪʃ ðəm ʌut ðer bɪl o fer o̜l skotlan wants ne skinkin wer ðat ʤo̜ps ɪn lʌgez bʌt ɪf ji wɪʃ hər gretfu prer gi hər ə hagɪs	You Pow'rs, that make mankind your care, And dish them out their bill of fare, Old Scotland wants no watery ware That slops in bowls: But, if You wish her grateful prayer, Give her a Haggis!