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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,
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic labour dight,
Like onie ditch;
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 ro rive,
Is there that o'er his French ragout,
, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her
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,
He'll mak it whissle ;
Like taps o' thrissle.
Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
That juaps in luggies ;
Gie her a Haggis!
GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq.
Expect na, Sir, in this narration,
great and 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,
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,