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IPA pronunciation guide
(Central West Scots like Burns)
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Idiomatic translation
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Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak yer place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my airm.
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fer fo̜ jur onəst sonse fes
gret ʧiftən o ðə pudɪn res
əbun ðəm o̜ ji tak jər ples
penʃ trəip or θerəm
wil ar ji worde o ə gres
əz laŋz məi erəm
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Nice seeing your honest, chubby face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Belly, tripe, or links:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.
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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.
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ðə gronɪn trɛnʃər ðer ji fɪl
jur hʌrdez ləik ə distənt hɪl
jur pɪn wad hɛlp tu mɛn ə mɪl
ɪn təim o nid
ʍəil θro jur porz ðə djuz dɪstɪl
ləik ambər bid
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The groaning platter there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.
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His knife see rustic Labour dicht,
An cut you up wi ready slicht,
Trenching your gushing entrails bricht,
Like onie ditch;
And then, Oh what a glorious sicht,
Warm-reekin, rich!
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hɪz nəif si rʌstɪk lebər dɪxt
ən kʌt ju ʌp wɪ rɛde slɪxt
trɛnʃɪn jur gʌʃɪn ɛntrelz brɪxt
ləik one dɪʧ
ən ðɛn o ʍat a gloreəs sɪxt
warəm-rikɪn rɪʧ
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His knife see rustic Labour sharpen,
And cut you up with practiced skill,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, Oh what a glorious sight,
Warm-steaming, rich!
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Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmaist, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.
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ðɛn, horn fər horn ðe strɛʧ ən strəiv
dil tak ðə həinmest on ðe drəiv
tɪl o̜ ðer wil-swaləd kəits bələiv
ar bɛnt ləik drʌmz;
ðɛn o̜l gɪdman mest ləik tu rəiv
bəθankɪt hʌmz
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Then, spoon for spoon, they stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
'Til all their well-swollen bellies soon
Are tight as drums;
Then old Master, most likely to burst,
'Thanks Be' hums.
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Is there that ower his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?
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ɪz ðɛr ðat ʌuər hɪz frɛnʃ rəgu
or oleo ðat wad sto̜ ə su
or frɪkase wad mak hər spju
wɪ pɛrfək skʌnər
luks dʌun wɪ snirɪn skornfu vju
on sɪk a dɪnər
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Is there one, that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would give pause to a sow,
Or fricassee that would make her spew
With perfect loathing,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?
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Poor devil! see him ower 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,
Oh how unfit!
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pur dɛvɪl si hɪm ʌuər hɪs traʃ
az fɛkləs az ə wɪðərd raʃ
hɪz spɪnəl ʃaŋk ə gɪd ʍɪp-laʃ
hɪz niv a nɪt
θro blʌde flʌd or fil tu daʃ
o hʌu ʌnfɪt
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Poor devil! See him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His spindly leg a good whip-lash,
His fist a nit:
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
Oh how unfit!
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But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his wallie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.
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bʌt mark ðə rʌstɪk hagɪs fɛd
ðə trɛmblɪn ɛrθ rəzʌunz hɪz trɛd
klap ɪn hɪz wale niv ə blɛd
hil mek ɪt ʍɪsəl
ən legs ən arəmz, ən hidz wɪl snɛd
ləik taps o θrɪsəl
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But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his sturdy fist a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
And legs and arms, and heads will cut,
Like tops of thistle.
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Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if Ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!
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ji pʌuərz, ʍa mak mankəin jur ker
ən dɪʃ ðəm ʌut ðer bɪl o fer
o̜l skotlan wants ne skinkin wer
ðat ʤo̜ps ɪn lʌgez
bʌt ɪf ji wɪʃ hər gretfu prer
gi hər ə hagɪs
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You Pow'rs, that make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery ware
That slops in bowls:
But, if You wish her grateful prayer,
Give her a Haggis!
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