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, maist like to rive, Bethankit hums. İs Is there that o'er his French ragout; Or olio that wad ftaw a fow, Or fricaffee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' fneering, fcornfu' view On fic a dinner! Poor devil! fee him owre his trash, As fecklefs as a wither'd rafh, His fpindle 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, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will fned, Like taps o' thrifsle. Ye Ye Pow'ts wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae ftinking wate That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, Gie her a Haggis ! · A DEDICATIO N. ΤΟ 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 Because ye're firnam'd like His Grace, Then when I'm tir'd-and fae are ye Wi' mony a fulfome, finfu' lie, Set up a face, how I ftop short, 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 à naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; Sae I fhall fay, an' that's nae flatt'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 may do weel for a' he's done yet, But only he's no just begun yet. The |