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!