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.

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 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!

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.

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?

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!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his wallie 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 skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if Ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

Good luck to you and your honest, plump face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Gut, stomach-lining, or intestines:
You’re well worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.

The overloaded platter there you fill,
Your buttocks shaped like a a distant hilltop,
Your skewer would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores your juices drip
Like liquid gold.

His knife he wipes with rustic labour,
And cuts you up with easy skil,
Digging a great trench in your bright moist innards,
Like any ditch;
And then, Oh what a glorious sight,
Steaming, warm, with good rich smells!

Then, spoon for spoon, they eagerly eat:
Every man for himself, on they drive,
Till in due course all of their well-swollen bellies
Are stretched like drums;
Then old head of the table, most likely to burst,
‘The grace!’ hums.

Is it possible that anyone, over his French “ragout”,
Or his “olio” that would sicken a sow,
Or his “fricassee” that would make her vomit
With perfect disgust,
Could look down in a sneering, scornful way
On such a dinner as this?

Poor devil! Just look at him eating his trash,
As feeble as a withered reed,
His skinny leg, thin as the end of a whip,
His dainty fist as small as a nut:
How unfit is he to play a dashing part
In battles at sea or on the land!

But consider the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The earth trembles beneath his heavy tread,
Put a blade into his might fist,
And he’ll make it whistle;
Shearing off opponents’ legs and arms, and heads
Like cutting off the heads of thistles.

You powers, that make mankind your care,
And distribute food among them,
Old Scotland wants no watery dishes
That splash around in bowls:
But, if you want her prayers of gratitude,
Give her a Haggis!

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne?

CHORUS:
For auld lang syne, my jo,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup!
and surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We twa hae run about the braes,
and pou’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
sin’ auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
sin’ auld lang syne.

CHORUS

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!
and gie’s a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak’ a right gude-willie waught,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne?

CHORUS:
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

And surely you’ll buy your pint cup!
and surely I’ll buy mine!
And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We two have run about the slopes,
and picked the daisies fine;
But we’ve wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine;
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.

CHORUS

And there’s a hand my trusty friend!
And give me a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS