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Till a' their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums } Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve,
Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
His nieve a nit;
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 juaps in luggies ; But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray’r,
Gie her a Haggis!
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.
EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration,
This may do--maun do, Sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great fol 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 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 bim, 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 readily and freely grant,
But then, nae thanks to him for a' that;
Mortality, thou deadly bane,
No-stretch a point to catch a plack;
Be to the poor like onie whunstane,
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.
Oye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n,
Your pardon, Sir, for this digression,
So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour,
Because (ye need nae tak it ill)
Then patronize them wi' your favour,
“May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! May ne'er his gen’rous, honest heart, * For that same gen’rous spirit smart !
May K******'s far honour'd name •Lang beet his hymeneal flame, • Till H*******'s, at least a dizen, • Are frae their nuptial labours risen: * Five bonnie lasses round their table, • And seven braw fellows, stout an' able “To serve their king and country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel! May health and peace, with mutual rays, • Shine on the evening o’ his days; • Till bis wee curlie John's ier-oe, • When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, • The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!'
I will not wind a lang conclusion,