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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, ESR.
EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration,
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 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 readily and freely grant,
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, 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 he's the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word and deed, Its no thro’ terror of d-mn-tion ; It's just a carnal inclination.
Mortality, 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 wh-re, But point the rake that taks the door:
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,
O ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-,
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’ bis 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,