ΤΟ A HAGGIS. FAIR AIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: As lang's my arm. Weel are ye wordy of a grace 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, 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; Then auld guidman, maist like ro rive, Is there that o'er 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 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 But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an arms, an' heads will sned, Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That juaps in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, A DEDICATION. DEDICATION. ΤΟ GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration, Then Then when I'm tir'd—and sae are ye, This may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefou; For me! sae laigh I needna bow, For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; The Poet, some guid angel help him, Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him, He do weel for a' he's done yet, But only he's no just begun yet. may The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want; What's |