To a Haggis :) Tis Burn's night after all

As it is Burn's night tonight an, once again, i am missing out on a traditional supper I thought I would at least acknowledge my favorite poet's birthday
~~ Robert Burn's Born Jan 25th 1759 ~~ :)

Far fa' your honest sonsie face,
Great chieftian o' the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' 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 sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like ony ditch;
And the, 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 guidmen, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums

Is there tht o'er his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre 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,
O how unfit!

But mark the rustic Haggis-fed ____
The trembling earth resounds his tread!
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o' thissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!