“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 graceAs lang’s my arm.The groaning trencher there ye fill,Your hurdies like a distant hill,Your pin wad help to mend a millIn time o’ need,While thro’ your pores the dews distilLike amber bead.His knife see Rustic-labour dight,An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight,Trenching your gushing entrails brightLike onie ditch;And then, O what a glorious sight,Warm-reekin, rich!