Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks, a bannock, and a gill, [Whole breeches, oatmeal cake] An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, [plenty] Tak' a' the rest, An' deal'd about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.
[25] Forbes of Culloden was given in 1690 liberty to distil grain at Ferintosh without excise. When this privilege was withdrawn in 1785, the price of whisky rose--hence Burns's lament.
Fair fa' your honest sonsie face, [jolly] Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, [Above] Painch, tripe, or thairm: [Paunch, guts] Weel are ye wordy o' a grace [worthy] As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill; [buttocks] Your pin wad help to mend a mill [skewer] In time o' need; While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight, [wipe] An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, [skill] Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin', rich! [-smoking]
Then, horn for horn they stretch an' strive, [spoon] Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve [well-swelled bellies soon] Are bent like drums; Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, [burst] 'Be-thankit!' hums.
Is there that o'er his French _ragout_, Or _olio_ that wad staw a sow, [sicken] Or _fricassee_ wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering scornfu' view [disgust] On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, [feeble, rush] His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit: [fist, nut] Thro' bloody flood 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, [ample fist] He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, [crop] Like taps o' thrissle. [thistle]
Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware [watery stuff] That jaups in luggies; [splashes, porringers] But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, Gie her a Haggis!
Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, [Too] Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, [bashful, cringe] Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, [woe] And drap a tear.