# Address to a Haggis (annotated)

| 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! |
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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