Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
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 jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,

Gie her a haggis!

A

DEDICATION

ΤΟ

G**** H*:

ESQ.

EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration,
A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye're sirnam'd like His Grace,
Perhaps related to the race;

Then when I'm tir'd-and sae are ye,
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
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 fouk 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 do weel for a' he's done yet, But only he's no just begun yet.

may

The patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me,
I winna lie, come what will o' me),
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be,
He's just-nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant,

He downa see a poor man want;
What's no his ain he winna tak it,
What aince he says he winna break it;
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't,
Till aft his guidness is abus'd;

And rascals whyles that do him wrang,
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang:
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He does na fail his part in either.

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-t--n;
It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, 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,
And haud their noses to the grunstane:
Fly ev'ry art o' legal thieving;

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,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin !
Ye sons of heresy and error,

Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror!
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath;

When ruin, with his sweeping besom,

Just frets till heav'n commission gies him:
While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans,
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!