Lament him a' ye rantin core, Wha dearly like a random-fplore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, In focial key;

For now he's taen anither fhore,

An' owre the Sea!

The bonnie laffes weel may wifs him, And in their dear petitions place him: The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him,

Wi' tearfu' e'e;

For weel I wat they'll fairly miss him

That's owre the Sea.

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadft thou taen aff fome drowsy bummle, Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble,

'Twad been nae plea ;

But he was gleg as ony wumble,

That's owre the Sea!

Auld,

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An' ftain them wi' the faut, faut tear;

'Twill mak her poor, auld heart, I fear,

In flinders flee :

He was her Laureat monie a year,

That's owre the Sea!

He faw Misfortune's cauld Nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blaft;

A Jillet brak his heart at laft,

Ill may she be!

So, took a birth afore the mast,

An' owre the Sea.

To tremble under Fortune's cummock, On scarce a belly fu' o' drummock,

Wi' his proud, independent ftomach,

Could ill agree;

So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,

An' owre the Sea:

He

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 toaft 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, Till a' their weel-fwall'd kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;

Then auld Guidman, maift like to rive,

Bethankit hums.