TO A HAGGIS. Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of 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, And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect seonner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner! Poor devil! see him owre his trask, 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, But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' head 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' pray'r, Gie her a haggis ! A DEDICATION. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. Expect na, sir, in this narration, Then when I'm tir'd-and sae are ye, 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 beg i Sac I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin, 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, He downa see a poor man want; And rascals whyles that do him wrang. 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, It's no thro' terror of d-mn-ti-on; It's just a carnal inclination. Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! No-stretch a point to catch a plack Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re, No matter, stick to sound believing. Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' 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-n, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror! When ruin, with his sweeping berom, Your pardon, sir, for this digression, So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, I thought them something like yoursel. Then patronize them wi' your favour, And your petitioner shall ever } I had amaist said, ever pray, I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't; "May ne'er misfortune's growling bark I will not wind a lang conclusion But if (which pow'rs above prevent) Your humble servant then no more; } |