He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, He dealt it free: The Mufe was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the Sea. Jamaica bodies, ufe 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 hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the Sea! то TO A HAGGI S. FAIR fa' your honest, sonfie face, Great Chieftan o' the Puddin-race! Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm. The The groaning trencher there ye fill, 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, Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Betbankit hums. Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or olio that wad ftaw a fow, Or fricaffee wad mak her fpew Wi' perfect fconner, Looks down wi' fneering, fcornfu' view Poor devil! fee him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, His spindle shank 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 |