The Edmondson Blog

Fair is your honest happy face,
Great chieftain of the pudding race,
Above them all you take your place.
Stomach, tripe or guts,
Well are you worthy of a grace,
As long as my arm.

The groaning platter there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your skewer would help to repair a mill,
In time of need,
While through your pores the juices emerge,
Like amber beads.

His knife having seen hard labour wipes
And cuts you up with great skill,
Digging into your gushing insides bright,
Like any ditch,
And then oh what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich.

Then spoon for spoon,
They stretch and strive,
Devil take the last man, on they drive
Until all their well swollen bellies
Are bent like drums.
Then, the old gent most likely to rift (burp)
Be thanked, mumbles.

Is there that over his French Ragout
Or olio that would sicken a pig
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust
Looks down with a sneering scornful opinion
On such a dinner.

Poor devil, see him over his trash
As week as a withered rush (reed)
His spindle-shank a good whiplash
His clenched fist.the size of a nut.
Through a bloody flood and battle field to dash
Oh how unfit.

But take note of the strong haggis fed Scot
The trembling earth resounds his tread
Clasped in his large fist a blade
He'll make it whistle
And legs and arms and heads he will cut off
Like the tops of thistles.

You powers who make mankind your care
And dish them out their meals,
Old Scotland wants no watery food
That splashes in dishes
But if you wish her grateful prayer
Give her a haggis!