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Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puc!din-race!
Aboon them a'


Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang's my arm.

your place,

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 ro rive,

Bethankit hums.

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,
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,

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 juaps in luggies ;
wish her gratefu' pray'r,

Gie her a Haggis!

But, if





Expect na, Sir, in this narration,
A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,


great and noble bluid, Because ye're sirnam'd like his grace, Perhaps related to the race;

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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 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 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;


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