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 A DEDICATION то O**** H** 2 EXPECT na, fir, in this narration, A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication, Then when I'm tir'd-and fae are ye, For fear your modefty be hurt, This may do- -maun do, Sir, wi' them wha The Poet, fome guid Angel help him, But only—he's no just begun yet. The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 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; And rafcals whyles that do him wrang, But then, nae thanks to him for a' that ;' Wha never heard of Orth-d-xy, That he's the poor man's friend in need, It's no thro' terror of D-mn-t--n; Morality, thou deadly bane, No-stretch a point to catch a plack; Steal thro' the winnock frae a wh-re. 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; O ye wha leave the fprings o' C-lv-n, Ye fous of Herefy and Error, Ye'll fome day fqueel in quaking terror! |