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AYE wha live by soups o' drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A' ye wha live and never think,

Come, mourn wi' me!

Our Billie's gien us a jink,

An' owre the sea.

Lament him a' ye rantin core,
Wha dearly like a random-splore ;
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar,

In social key;

For now he's ta'en 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 ta'en off some drousy 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, 1 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;
Alet 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 belly fu' o' drummuck,
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 misguidin,
Yet coin his pouches wad nae bide in;
Wi' him it ne'er was under hidden;

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.


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 worthy of a grace

As lang's my arm.

The groanin 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,
And cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenchin your gushin entrails bright

Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin, rich.

Then, horn for horn, they stretch and 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 fricasee wad mak him spew,

Wi' perfect sconner,

Looks down wi' sneerin 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' bluidy 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;

And legs, and arms, and 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 skinkin ware

That jaups in luggies:

But, if ye wish her grateful pray'r,

Gie her a Haggis!



EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration,

A fleechin fleth'rin dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guiḍ,
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-an' sae are ye
Wi' mony a fulsome sinfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I stopt 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 need na 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;
What's no his ain he winna tak it,
What aince he says he winna break it;
Ought he can lend he'll not refus'd,
Till aft his guidness is abus'd;

An' 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;
Its 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 an' deed,
It's no thro' terror o' 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 an' 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 ony whunstane,
An' haud their noses to the grunstane:
Ply ev'ry heart 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,
An' 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 o' Calvin,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin:
Ye sons o' heresy, an' error,

Ye'll some day squeel in quakin terror;
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath;
When ruin, with his sweepin besom,
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him:
While owre the harp pale mis'ry moans,
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones,
Still louder shrieks, an' heavier groans !

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