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 FAIR fa’ your honest sonsie face, Great chieftain o the puddin race I 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, Four hurries like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill, In time o’ need, While through your pores the dews distil, Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic labor dight, An cut ye up wi’ ready flight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch, And then, O what a glorious fight, Warm-reekin rich.

Then horn for horn they stretch an’ strive, Deil take the hindmost, on they drive, Till a their weel-swall'd kytes belyve, Are bent like drums, Then auld gudeman just like to rive, Bethankit hums.