Or worthy friends rack'd i' the mools, Sad sight to see!

The tricks of knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw,

Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell Amang them a'!

O thou grim mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes of discord squeel,
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel
In gore a shoe-thick;

Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal

A townmond's Toothache !

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 wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there you 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 labor dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reeking, 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 to rive,
Bethankit hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricasse 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 whiplash,
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 whistle;

An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thissle.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants na skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,
Gie her a Haggis!

THE HOLY FAIR.*

A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty Observation;

And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
The dirk of Defamation:

A mask that like the gorget show'd,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.

HYPOCRISY A-LA-MODE.

I.

UPON a simmer Sunday morn,

When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,

An' snuff the caller air:

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the west of Scotland for a sacra mental occasion.

The rising sun owre Galston muirs,
Wi' glorious light was glintin;
The hares were hirplin' down the furs,
The lav'rocks they were chantin'
Fu' sweet that day

II.

As lightsomely I glow'r'd abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,
Three Hizzies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin' up the way;
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
But ane wi' lyart lining;
The third, that gaed a-wee-a-back,
Was i' the fashion shining

Fu' gay that day.

III.

The twa appear'd like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes;
Their visage wither'd, lang, an thin,
An' sour as onie slaes:

The third cam up, hap-step-an'-loup,

As light as onie lambie,

An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,
As soon as e'er she saw me,

Fu' kind that day.

IV.

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonie face,
But yet I canna name ye."
Quo' she, an' laughing as she spak,
An' taks me by the hands,

“Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck

Of a' the ten commands

A screed some day

V.

"My name is Fun your cronie dear

The nearest friend ye hae;

An' this is Superstition here,

An' that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to

Holy Fair,

To spend an hour in daffin; b

Gin ye'll go thare, yon runkl'd pair,
We will get famous laughin'

At them this day."

VI.

Quoth I, "With a' my heart, I'll do't,
I'll get my Sunday sark on,
An' meet you on the holy spot:

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!"
Then I gaed hame at crowdie time,
An' soon I made me ready;

For roads were clad, frae side to side,
Wi' monie a weary body,

In droves that day.

VII.

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith,
Gaed hoddin by their cotters;
There, swankies, young, in braw braid cloth,

Are springin' o'er the gutters;

The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
In silks an' scarlets glitter;