For now he's taen anither shore,

An' owre the sea.

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 taen 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 birth 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't his hurdies in a hammock,

An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gien 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.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,

An' hap him in a cozie biel :

Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel,

And fou 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' owre the sea!

ΤΟ

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,
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.

Is there that o'er his French ragout,

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad mak her spew

Wi' perfect sconner,

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;