address to a is

fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

great chieftain o' the pudding-race!

aboon them a' yet tak your ce,

painch, tripe, or thairm:

weel are ye wordy o'a grace

asng's my arm.

the groaning trencher there ye fill,

your hurdies like a distant hill,

your pin was help to mend a mill

in time o'need,

while thro' your pores the dews distil

like amber bead.

his knife see rusticbour dight,

an' cut you up wi' ready sleight,

trenching your gushing entrails bright,

like ony ditch;

and then, o what a glorious sight,

warm-reekin', rich!

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,

bethankit! hums.