Mi'lord, would ye like some boil't beets an' haggis?

I would not.

Would you like them in a boat?
Would you like them with a goat?

In sooth, I wouldna, couldna, on a boat,
nay, I wouldna, couldna with a goat,
I dinnae like boil't beets and haggis
I dinnae like them, Sam McTaggis

Not if your boat was in a moat
or if the goat gave you oats?

I wouldna, couldna in a moat
I wouldna, coulda with some oats
I do not like boilt beets and haggis
even served by you, McTaggis

Would you on the ocean blue?
Would you, if t'were in a stew?

I wouldna, couldna on the ocean blue
I willna eat it in a stew
I dinnae like boilt beets and haggis
please leave me alone, Sam McTaggis!

But why? That haggis is fresh, the beets are red
Do ye wish to be starved 'till ye are dead?
See here my lovely sheep
she's et so much, she's gone to sleep
Please try my boil't beets and haggis,
I swear they're good, or I'm not Sam McTaggis!

I do not like boil't beets and haggis...
They make me roil, they make me gaggis
I wouldna do that to my sheep
I wouldna eat them, not even to sleep
I do not like boilt beets and haggis
Not even served by you, McTaggis.

Not even if I beg?
Even standing on one leg?

Not if you beg,
even on your only leg.

Lad, your beets be watery mush
your haggis worse than winter slush
I willna touch them with this hand
I will not have them on my land

Now get ye gone, and now I say!
or with my hounds you'll spend the day.

Yipe! I run, I flee
perhaps these viands are not the best for me!

SPECIAL HAGGIS BONUS

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 hrdies 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 sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony 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 lyke drums;
Then 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 sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

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,
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 skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!