[57north-discuss] [57north-announce] Saturday

[Tom Jones]

On Sat, Jan 25, 2020 at 10:07:49AM +0000, Edward Watson wrote:
> Hey all
> 
> I'll be in the space from 2pm onwards today.
> 
> Pop in for fun hackytimes.
> 

I wasn't planning on coming in, but I might. Here is a poem either way:

    Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
    Great chieftain o' the pudding-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 slight,
    Trenching your gushing entrails bright
                      Like onie ditch;
    And then, 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 Guidman, maist like to rive,
                      Bethankit hums.

    Is there that 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' thrissle.

    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' pray'r,
                      Gie her a Haggis!

- [tj]