Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or olio that wad ftaw a fow,

Or fricaffee wad mak her spew

Wi' perfect fconner,

Looks down wi' fneering, scornfu' view

On fic a dinner!

Poor devil! fee him owre his trash,

As feckless as a wither'd rash,

His spindle fhank a guid whip-lash,

His nieve a nit;

Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,

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' thrissle.

Ye

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae fkinking ware

That jaups in luggies;

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

Gie her a Haggis!

DEDICATIO N.

TO

G***** H*******, Esq.

EXPECT

na, Sir, in this narration,

A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication,

To roofe you up, an' ca' you guid,

An' fprung o' great an' noble bluid,

VOL. II.

E

Because

1

Because ye're firnam'd like His Grace,
Perhaps related to the race;

Then when I'm tir'd-and fae are ye

Wi' mony a fulfome, finfu' lie,

Set up a face, how I ftop short,

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 needna bow, For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ; And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin, Its juft fic Poet, an' fic Patron.

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

But only he's no just begun yet.

The

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 aince he fays 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, Husband, Father,
He does na fail his part in either.

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that;
Nae godly Symptom ye can ca' that;
It's naething but a milder feature,

Of our poor, finfu', corrupt Nature: