Aye, so, I have just had the most divine food experience of my whole lfe.
Mike brought me back a haggis from his recent jaunt to Scotlandland, made by a real Scotlandlandish wee buthcer fellow, and oh boy, was it ever the nicest thing I have ever put in my mouth.
I’ve had haggis many times before, of course, being half Scottish and a father from Glasgow, but this…oh man, it was the best.
So I thought in honor of this fine repast – the likes of which I have never come across before – I would reproduce Robert Burns’ famous address To a Haggis. Stand by for high-brow lah-de-dah poetry after the jump.
To a Haggis
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 of 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 distill
Like amber bead
His knife sees 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,
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;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that was staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view,
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy fluid or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs an’ arms an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle.
Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae sinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if you wish her gratefu’ pray’r,
Gie her a Haggis!