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Lament him a' ye rantin core,

, Wha dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar,

In social key ; For now he's taen anither shore,

An' owre the Sea !

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss 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 ! Hadst thou taen aff fome drowsy bummle, Wha can do nought bụt fyke an' fumble,

?Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble, si That's owre the Sea!



Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers Wear,
An' stain 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 !

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He saw Misfortune's cauld Nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A Jillet brak his heart at last,

Ill may she be !
So, took a birth afore the most,

An' owre the Sea.



To tremble under Fortune's cummock,
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,
Wi' his proud, independent stomach,

Could ill agree;

So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,

An' owre the Sea.


He ne'er was gien to great misguiding,
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 toast ye in my hindmost gillie,

Tho' owre the Sea !

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H A G G I S.

Fair fa' your honest, 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 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 see Rustic labour dight, An' cut you up wi' ready Night,

, Trenching your gushing entrails bright

Like onie ditch ; And then, O what a glorious fight,

Warm-reekin, rich !

Then horn for horn they stretch an’strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve

Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,

Bethankit hums.

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