Punch (96.1889)

182 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, [April 20, 1889.

TO A HAGGIS.

Some way after Robbie Burns. By a Scotch M.P.

Scotchman. “ Aweel. it does na look bad: we’ll just see how it’ll cut up!”

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,

Great chieftain of the pudding-race!
Aye, in your weel-swall’d. round I trace
Much that must charm.
Some say ye ’re worthy o’ a grace
As lang ’s my arm.
Lord-Advocate, that canny chiel,

Wha ’ll rival Ritchie at a Bill,

Says that our Scottish wames ye ’ll fill
In time o’ need*.

We ’ll welcome ye wi’ right gude will
If ’ts sae indeed.

But soon we Scots our knives will dight,
An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight,

To see if your inside's a’ right,

Hot “quisby snitch,”

But gushin’ on our gladden’d sight
Warm-reekin, rich!
To-day all parties stretch an’ strive,
Deil tak’ the hindmost on they drive.
Weel, we will test your kyte belyve,
Hae hollow drums

Must meet us when your sides we rive.

Scots like not “ hums.”
Te ’re mixtie-maxtie, like the stew
Of Ireland, or some French ragout;

But an the recipe be true,.

Asl’ma sinner,

We Scots will settle doun to you
As a braw dinner.

But if ye ’re stuffed with tripe an’ trash
Unworthy o’ a Cockney hash,

Our tongues shall fa’ like good whip-lash
On, him—nae wit—

Wha doun sae dowlf a dish could dash,
For Scots unfit.

True Scottish Members,, haggis-fed,

O’er your warm reek will wag the head,
An if ye prove a sham, ye ’re dead
As clean’s a whissle.

The Shamrock may be bogle-led,

But no the Thistle !

Ye pow’rs wha mak’ the State your care,
And dish us out our bills o’ fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae shinking ware,
In yonder bag is,

We trust—’tis Caledonia’s prayer—

A true Scotch Haggis !