ΤΟ A HAGGIS. FAIR fa' your honest sonsie face, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, 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, Then auld guid man, 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 sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner! Poor devil! see him owre his trash, His nieve a nit; Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, 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 A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration, Then Then when I'm tir'd-and sae are ye, Set up a face, how I stop short, 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; 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; What's |