He ne'er was gien to great mifguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding; He dealt it free: The Muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the Sea. Jamaica bodies, use him weel, An' hap him in a cozie biel: Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel, And fou o' glee : He wad na wrang'd the vera Deil, That's owre the Sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-compofing billie! Your native foil was right ill-willie; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie! I'll toast ye in my hindmoft gillie, Tho' owre the Sea! то TO A HAGGIS. FAIR fa' your honeft, fonfie face, Great Chieftan o' the Puddin-race ! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm : Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm. The The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a diftant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need, While thro' your pores the dews diftil Like amber bead. His knife fee Ruftic labour dight, An' cut you up wi' ready flight, Trenching your gufhing entrails bright Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious fight, Warm-reekin, rich! Then, horn for horn they ftretch an' strive, Deil tak the hindmoft, on they drive, Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Bethankit hums. Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or olio that wad ftaw a fow, Or fricaffee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' fneering, fcornfu' view On fic a dinner! Poor devil fee him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, His fpindle fhank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the Ruftic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth refounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whifsle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will fned, Like taps o' thrifsle. Ye |