NetNarr DDA 132

Haggis

It’s Burns Night this week, so for yesterday’s DDA (which I am doing late) I chose Robbie Burns’ Address to a Haggis, translated it into Portguese, then into Bulgarian, and then into English. Here’s the result:

Hagis Address
Honestly, your honest face,
Great boss of pudding running!
Abon them “Take your place,
Pain, envelopes or trauma:
Weale is worthy of grace
Like my ling is like lang.

The drift that moaned there,
Her strikes are like a distant hill,
His fist helped repair a mill
Over time, you need this,
While your pores are distilling them
Like the amber sphere.

His knife sees the peasant work,
Cut yourself ready,
By pulling his gut,
Like a ditch;
And then, what a glorious sight,
Stick-rick, rich!

After this horn of horn, they stretch effort:
Dale takes his ass, drives,
Even his “swel’d kytes belyve”
They are folded like drums;
Aldd Gidman, the master loves the roar,
“Betancity” rages.

There must be a French ranch,
Or there was a walnut,
Or the friction rotation made him throw away
Wi Scunner perfect,
Look down with contemptuous eyesight
Dinner?

Poor devil! see it, I owe it to you,
Like a rash,
His spindle produces whiplash,
His snow to the rim;
Because a bloody flood or an escape,
How wrong!

But highlight the peasant, haggis-fed,
The shaking land sounded on the floor,
A crack in his beard, he carried a blade,
He will do it alone;
The legs of the hand, the heads will fall,
Like thorn cranes.

Pow’rs to worry about humanity,
And lock them out of the bill or odds,
Old Scotland wants to wander
Which games in the trunk:
But if you wish your grateful prayer,
Take Haggis

And here’s the original:

Address to a Haggis
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 worthy 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;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
‘Bethankit’ hums.

Is there that owre 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?

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 make 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 skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis

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2 Responses to NetNarr DDA 132

  1. Mark Wilson says:

    Hi Sarah! You have inspired me to search for a vegetarian haggis. If there is one to be had in the states, it’ll be in Berkeley, California. I wouldn’t eat such a thing, mind you, I will just enjoy the hunt. I’m still waiting for President Drumpf to lift the US import ban on offal so I can enjoy a real Scottish frozen haggis.
    Check out my #DDA132 http://markcorbettwilson.com/wp/here-we-go-again-taking-year-2-of-networked-narratives-for-a-spin/

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