1 Corps.

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 seal

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 sairly miss him
That's owre the sea!

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!
Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle,"
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble,
"Twad been nae plea;

But he was gleg as ony wumble,"

That's owre the sea!

Auld, cantie Kyle' may weepers wear,
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
"Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee;

He was her Laureat monie a year,

That's owre the sea!

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 berth afore the mast,

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't12 his hurdies in a hammock,
An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gi'en 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.

4 Fuss. Sharp.
8 Shreds.

A wimble

11 Meal and water. 12 Wrapped.

TO A HAGGIS.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
An' hap' him in a cozie biel;"
Ye'll find him ay' a dainty chiel,
And fu' o' glee;

He wad na wrang'd the vera deil,

That's owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!
Your native soil was right ill-willie;
But may ye flourish like a lily,

Now bonnilie!

I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,"
Tho' ower the sea!

113

Painch, tripe, or thairm;

Weel are ye wordy o' a grace

As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,

While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,"
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright

Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

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.

1 Cover.

9 Diminutive of gill.

2 Shelter.

A dish which is only known or relished in Scotland. It is said to be composed of minced mutton, oatmeal, and suet; but a Southron reader will not desire a particular receipt.

Small entrails. 6 Wipe. ' Swelled. 8 Stomachs. • Burst.

Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw' a sow,

Or fricassee wad mak her spew

Wi' perfect sconner,

2

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view

On sic 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' thrissle.

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' prayer,

Gie her a Haggis.

▲ DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration

9

A fleechin, fleth'rin" Dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,

Because ye're surnam'd like His Grace,

Perhaps related to the race;

Then when I'm tir'd-and sae are ye,

Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,

Set up a face, how I stop short

For fear your modesty be hurt.

1 Surfeit.

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;

2 Loathing.

• Large. 7 Lop. ⚫ Supplicating.

1 Home.

A DEDICATION.

And when I downa yoke a naig,'
Then, Lord be thanlit, I can beg;
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin,
It's just sic Poet, an' sic Patron.

The Poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear some 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 winna lie, come what will o' me),
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be,
He's just-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 ance he says he winna break it✨
Aught 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;
Its naething but a milder feature
Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature:
Ye'll get the best o' moral works,
'Mang black Gentoos and Pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,
Wha never heard of orthodoxy.

That's he's the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,

It's no thro' terror of damnation;
Its just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,

Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain!
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is
In moral mercy, truth, and justice!

No-stretch a point to catch a plack,"
Abuse a brother to his back;
Steal thro' a winnock' frae a

But point the rake that taks the door;

115

• Window.

Be to the poor like onie whunstane,'
And haud their noses to the grunstane,
Ply ev'ry art of legal thieving;

Nae matter, stick to sound believing.

Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile graces,
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang, wry faces;
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan,
And damn a' parties but your own;
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver,
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin,
For gumlie3 dubs' of your ain delvin!
Ye sons of heresy and error,

Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror!
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath;
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him:
While o'er the harp pale Mis'ry moans,
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression,
I maist forgat my Dedication;
But when divinity comes cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour,
But I maturely thought it proper,
When a' my works I did review,
To dedicate them, Sir, to you;
Because (you need na tak it ill)
I thought them something like yoursel.

Then patronize them wi' your favour,
And your petitioner shall ever-

I had amaist said, ever pray:

But that's a word I need na say:

For prayin I hae little skill o't;

5

I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't;
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r,
That kens or hears about you, Sir,-

"May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk!

¡Whinstone.

2 Hands.

Muddy. Ponds. Extremely aversa • of it.