TO A

HAGGIS.

FAIR

AIR fa' your honeft, fonfie face, Great Chieftan o' the Puddin race!

Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm :

Weel are you wordy o' a grace

As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there you 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 distill

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, what a glorious fight,

Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn they ftretch and strive,

Deil tak the hindmoft, on they drive,,

Till a' their wee-fwall'd kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;

Then auld Guidman, maift like to rive,

Bethankit hums.

Is there that owre kis French ragout,

Or olio that wád staw a fow,

Or fricaffee wad make her fpew

Wi' perfect fconner,

Looks down wifneering, fcornfu' view,

On fic a dinner?

Poor devil! fee him owre his trash,

As fecklefs as a' wither'd rash,

His fpindle thank a guid whip-lash,

His nieve a nit

Thro' bluidy flood or field to dafh,

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 Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care

And difh them out their bill o' fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae ftinking ware

and be skinking

That jaups in luggies, hin wating +

But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,

Gie her a haggist

of. Note Querie
45.x.387.

A

DEDICATION

то

O**** H**
H******* Efq.

2

EXPECT na, fir, in this narration,

A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication,
To roofe you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' fprung o' great an noble bluid;
Becaufe ye're firnam'd like His Grace
Perhaps related to the race:

Then when I'm tir'd-and fae are ye,
Wi' monie a fulfome, finfu` lie,
Set up a face, how I ftop fhort,.

For fear your modefty be hurt,

This may do- -maun do, Sir, wi' them wha
Maun please the Great Folk for a wamefou;.
For me! fae laigh I need na bow,
For, LORD be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, LORD be thankit, I can beg;
Sae I fhall fay, an' that's nae flat'rin,,
It's juft fic Poet an' fic Patron.

The Poet, fome guid Angel help him,
Or elfe, I fear. fome ill ane fkelp him!
He do well for a' he's done yet,
may

But only—he's no just begun yet.

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me,
I winna lie, come what will o' me)
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be,
He's juft-nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant,

He downa fee a poor man want:

What's no his ain, he winna tak it;

What ance he says, he winna break it;
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't,
Till aft his guidness is abus'd;

And rafcals whyles that do him wrang,
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang :
As Mafter, Landlord, Hufband, Father,
He does na fail his part in either.

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that ;'
Nae godly fympton ya can ca' that;
It's naething but a milder feature,
Of our poor, finfu', corrupt Nature :
Ye'll get the best o' moral works,
'Mang black Gentoos, and Pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,

Wha never heard of Orth-d-xy,

That he's the poor man's friend in need,
The Gentleman in word and deed,

It's no thro' terror of D-mn-t--n;
It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,
Thy tens o' thousands thou haft slain!
Vain is his hope, whafe ftay an' trust is
In moral Mercy, Truth and Justice!

No-stretch a point to catch a plack;
Abufe a Brother to his back;

Steal thro' the winnock frae a wh-re.
But point the Rake that taks the door;
Be to the Poor like onie whunflane;
And haud their noses to the grunstane;
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving;
No matter-flick to found believing.

Learn three-mile pray?rs, an' half-mile graces, Wi' weel spread looves, an' lang wry faces! Grunt a folemn' lengthen’d groan,

up

And damn a' Parties but your own;
I'll warrant then, ye're nae Deceiver,
A fteady, fturdy; flaunch Believer.

O ye wha leave the fprings o' C-lv-n,
For gumie dubs of your
ain delvin!

Ye fous of Herefy and Error,

Ye'll fome day fqueel in quaking terror!