Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-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...
JJ it's a wee beestie wi long legs that roams the hills of Scotland.....a very tasty wee beastie I may add....a very specific ritual offering has to be made as it's death is offered to the gods afore it's devoured....