 Weerfaa, jy'er on a Sonse face, Great chieftin o' the puddin race, A bindamaa, jy'y taak jy'r place, Painch, trijp, o'r fherm, Willar, jy'y worde o'a grace, As langs m'a erm. The groen en trencher there, jy'y fel, Jy'er hardies like a distant hill, Jy'y pin would help to mend a mill in time and need, And through the pores, the Jews distill, Like amber bead, His knife, serustic, labor dicht, And cut you up way on a slacht, Trenching your gushing entrails bricht, Like on a ditch, And then, oh what, a glorious sicht, Warm, oh reken, En rich. Now horn for horn, they stretch and strive, To lather wheel fill kites belive, And all good man may slike to rive, Ah, be thank it hums. Is there that hour is French regu, Or olio that would staw a sue, Or frikasee that would macke a spew, We perfect scunner, Who looks dun we sneeren, scorn for view, On syke dinner. Now see the devil lourie's trash, As feckless as a withered rash, His spindle shank, a good whiplash, His kneeve and knit, Through bloody flood and fielded ash, Oh, oh, oh, how unfit, But mark, the rustic hag is fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his wally neever blade, He'll macke twissel, In herms en wedgen, Oh, oh, oh, heed's ol shned, Like taps of thristle. Now you powers, why macke mankind, Your care, and dish them out, Their bill of fare, All Scotland once nays skinken, Where that joup's in luggies, But if you wish, her grateful prayer, Gee her a haggis. Ander.