And ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,

Thou, Tooth-ach, surely bear'st the bell
Amang them a'!

O thou grim mischief making chiel,
That gars the notes of discord squeel,
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel

In gore a shoe-thick;

Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal

A towmond's Tooth-ach!

TO A HAGGIS.

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Pamch tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there you 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 labor dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reeking 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 to rive,
Bethankit hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricasse wad mak her spew

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 fiunt !

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whistle;

An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thissle.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants na skinking ware

That jaups in luggies;

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

Gie her a Haggis!

THE HOLY FAIR*,

A ROBE of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty Observation;

And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
The dirk of Defamation :

A mask that like the gorget show'd,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;

And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.

Hypocrisy a-la-mode.

1.

UPON a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature's face is fair
I walked forth to view the corn,
An' snuff the caller air,

The rising sun owre Galston muirs,
Wi' glorious light was glintin;
The hares were hirplin down the furs.
The lav'rocks they were chantin

Fu' sweet that day.

II.

As lightson. v I glowr'd abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,
Three Hissies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin up the way ;

Holy Fair is a common phrase in the west of Scotland for sacramental occasion.

Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
But ane wi' lyart lining;

The third, that gaed a-wee-a-back,
Was in the fashion shining,

Fu' gay that day.

III.

The twa appear'd like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes;
Their visage, wither'd lang, an' thin,
An' sour as onie slaes;

The third cam up, hap-step-an'-loup,
As light as onie lambie,

An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,

As soon as e'er she saw me,

Fu' kind that day.

IV.

Wi bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonie face,
But yet I canna name ye."
Quo' she, an' laughing as she spak,
An' taks me by the hands,

"Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck Of a' the ten commands

A screed some day.

V.

'My name is Fun-your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae;

An' this is Superstition here,

An' that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to

-Holy Fair,

To spend an hour in daffin:

Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair,

We will get famous laughin

At them this day."

VI.

Quoth I, "With a' my heart, I'll do't;
I'll get my Sunday's sark on,
An' meet you on the holy spot;

Faith we'se hae fine remarkin!"
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time
An' soon I made me ready;

For roads were clad, frae side to side,
Wi' monie a wearie body,

In droves that day.

VII.

Here farmers gash, in ridin graith
Gaed hoddin by their cotters;
There, swankies, young, in braw braid cloth
Are springin o'er the gutters,
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
In silks an' scarlets glitter;

Wi' smeet-milk cheese, in monie a whang,

An' farls bak'd wi' butter

Fu' crump that day.

VIII.

When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi' he'pence,
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws,
An we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show,
On ev'ry side they're gathrin,

Some carrying dales, some chairs an' stools,
An' some are busy blethrin

Right loud that day.

IX.

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,
An' screen our countra gentry,

There racer Jess, an' twa-three wh-res,
Are blinkin at the entry.