Tae a Scotch Pie

Fair faa yer gustie mutton mince,
Scotland's michty Pastry Prince,
Mair hertsome nor a quiche or quince
Or finnan haddie,
I've looed yer sairin ivver since,
I wis a laddie.

Wi Bovril on the Gorgie braes,
I mind ye in a blythsome haze,
O muckle joy and scantlins waes,
An Jam Tarts fame,
As glegly on thae cantie days,
Ye beeked ma wame.

I champed inil yer crinchy crust,
Wi blythe delicht, for I cuid trust,
That smervie juices syne wad brust,
Apon ma pree,
Tae satisfee ma eydent lust,
I haed nae dree.

Ower Forfar bridie, sassidge roll,
Cullen skink, taid i the hole,
Ower batter't haddie, breidit sole,
An aa sic slaister,
Ower aa the trashtrie man cuid thole,
Ye are the maister.

The wunners frae the baxter's han,
Scones an breid, baith plain or pan,
They beir the gree aa throu this lan,
Maist douce an braw,
But Scotch pies tae the fitba man,
Is pride o aa.

David C. Purdie