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 wordy of a grace
As lang's 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.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!....more
Anyhoo.... Went to CountingHouse today and tasted haggis for the first time and what a better time to do such. Tastes like stuffing with a chunk load of barley inside.
Anyway, skiing at Aviemore tomorrow! Looking forward to whatever may come!
No comments:
Post a Comment