D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds and restit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz

'Mang better folk,

And sklented on the man Üz

Your spitefu' joke?

And how ye gat him i' your thrall,
And brak him out o' house and hall,
While scabs and blotches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw,

And lowsed his ill-tongued, wicked scawl,

Was warst ava!

But a' your doings to rehearse,

Your wily snares and fetchin' fierce,

'Sin that day of Michael * did you pierce

Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,

In prose or rhyme,

And now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinking',

A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin',

Some luckless hour will send him linkin'

To your black pit;

But, faith! he'll turn a corner, jinkin',
And cheat you yet.

But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak' a thought and men'!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken--

Still ha'e a stake

I'm wae to think upo' you den,

Ev'n for your sake!

THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE,

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL
IN THE NEW-YEAR.

A GUDE New-Year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie;
Tho' thou's howe-backit now, and knaggie,
I've seen the day,

Thou could ha'e gaen like ony staggie

Out-owre the lay.

* Vide Milton, Book vi.

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy,
And thy auld hide's as white's a daisey,
I've seen the dapplet, sleek, and glaizie,
A bonnie gray;

He should been tight that daur't to raize thee
Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i' the formost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, and swank,
And set weel dowu a sharply shank

As e'er trod yaird;
And could ha'e flown out-owre a stank
Like ony bird.

It's now some nine-and-twenty year,
Sin' thou was my guid father's meere,
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,

And fifty mark;

Though it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,

And thou was stark.

When first I gaed to wooed my Jenny,
Ye was then trottin' wi' your minnie;
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, and funny,

Ye ne'er was donsie ;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, and cannie,
And unco sonsie.

That day ye pranced wi' muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonny bride:
And sweet and gracefu' she did ride,
Wi' maiden air!

Kyle-Steward I could bragged wide,
For sic a pair.

Tho' now ye dow but-hoyte and hobble,
And wintle like a saumont-coble,

That day ye was a jinker noble,

For heels and win',

And ran them till they a' did wauble

Far, far behin'.

When thou and I were young and skeigh,
And stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,

How thou wad prance, and snort, and skreigh

And tak' the road,

Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh,

And ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, and I was mellow,
We took the road ay like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne'er a fallow,

For pith and speed;

But every tail thou pay't them hollow,

Whare'er thou gaed.

The sma', droop-rumpl't hunter cattle,
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle,
And gar't them whaizle;

Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle

O'saugh or hazel.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan'

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ;
Aft thee and I, in aught hours' gaun,
In gude March weather,

Ha'e turn'd sax rood beside our han',

For days thegither.

Thou never braindg't, and fech't, and fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
And spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,

Wi' pith and power,

Till spritty knowes wad rair't and riskit,

An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep,
And threaten'd labour back to keep,

I gied thy cog a wee bit heap

Aboon the timmer;

I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep

For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit;

The steyest brae thou wad ha'e faced it;
Thou never lap, and sten't and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,

Thou snoov't awa'.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a';
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
Forbye sax mae, I've sell'd awa,

That thou hast nurst:

They drew me thretteen pund and twa,

The very warst.

Mony a sair darg we twa ha'e wrought,
And wi' the weary warl' fought!
And mony an anxious day, I thought
We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we're brought,

Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld trusty servan',
That now, perhaps, thou's less deservin',
And thy auld days may end in starvin',
For my last fou,

A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane

Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;

Wi' tentie care I'll fit thy tether

To some hain'd rig,

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,

With sma' fatigue.

TO A HAGGIS.

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 wordy o' a grace

As lang's my arm.

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,
And cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like ony ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight!

Warm-reekin', rich.

Then horn for horn they stretch and strive,
De'il tak' the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes, belyve,

Are bent like drums;

Then auld gudeman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.

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

Or fricassee 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 neive 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 whistle;

And legs, and arms, and heads will sned,
Like taps o' thristle.

Ye powers, 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,

Gi'e her a Haggis !

A PRAYER

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear,

In whose dread presence, ere an hour
Perhaps, I must appear!