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Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Or olio that wad ftaw a low,
Or fricasee wad mak her fpew

Wi' perfect fconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, fcornful view

On fic a dinner!

Poor devil! see 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 Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissie.

Ye

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Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

That jaups in luggies ; But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,

Gie her a Haggis!

А

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D E DI C Α Τ Ι Ο Ν.

TO

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

EXPECT

na, Sir, in this narration,
A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
VOL. II.

E

Because

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 fulsome, finfu’lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This

may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them wha Maun please the Great Folk for a wamefou; For me! sae laigh I needna bow, For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can heg; Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin, Its just fic Poet, an' fic Patron.

The Poet, fome guid Angel help him, Or else, I fear fome ill ane skelp 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 see a poor man want ;
What's no his ain he winna tak it,
What aince he says he winna break it;
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't,
Till aft his guidness is abus’d;
And rascals whyles that do him wrang,
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang:
As Master, 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 :
E 2

Ye'll

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