Beekeeper's address tae a haggis by Alan Riach
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 worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Just like a super on the hill,
Wi heather honey like to spill,
In harvest weather.
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like well pressed heather.
Uncapping knife the beekeeper bears,
Tae cut ye up with ne’r a teer
Expose your gushing entrails bright,
Like chestnut pollen;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm reekin, open!
Hive tool and smoker on they strive;
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel swall'd kytes belyve
As tight as drums;
The good auld beekeeper, like to rive
'Bethankit' hums.
Less able folk eat French ragout
Or olio would bed a soo
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner;
They look down wi ’ scornfu view
On such a dinner?
Poor devils, see them owre their jar.
As feckless as a wither'd spar,
Their spindle airms, like bottom bars
And fists like peanuts
Wi good black bees they fear to war
O how unfit!
But mark the Scot, with haggis fed;
And heather honey; hear his tread
In ample fist a hive tool blade,
He'll work it faster;
The bees stand back wi full respect,
For such a master.
Ye Pow'rs , wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Scots beefolk want nae watery ware
That slops in juggies;
But, if ye wish their grateful prayer,
Gie them a Haggis
abr - with apologies to The Bard!