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Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Wi' perfect fconner,
On fic a dinner!
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
His nieve a nit;
O how unfit !
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
He'll mak it whissle;
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!
D E DI C Α Τ Ι Ο Ν.
G***** H*******, Esq.
na, Sir, in this narration,
Because ye're firnam'd like His Grace,
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 Patron (Sir, ye maun forgie me,
I readily and freely grant,
But then, nae thanks to him for a' that;