D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 'Mang better folk, And sklented on the man Üz Your spitefu' joke? And how ye gat him i' your thrall, 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', But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben! 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 A GUDE New-Year I wish thee, Maggie! Thou could ha'e gaen like ony staggie Out-owre the lay. * Vide Milton, Book vi. Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, He should been tight that daur't to raize thee Thou ance was i' the formost rank, As e'er trod yaird; It's now some nine-and-twenty year, And fifty mark; Though it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, And thou was stark. When first I gaed to wooed my Jenny, Ye ne'er was donsie ; That day ye pranced wi' muckle pride, Kyle-Steward I could bragged wide, Tho' now ye dow but-hoyte and hobble, 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, 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, For pith and speed; But every tail thou pay't them hollow, Whare'er thou gaed. The sma', droop-rumpl't hunter cattle, 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 ; Ha'e turn'd sax rood beside our han', For days thegither. Thou never braindg't, and fech't, and fliskit, Wi' pith and power, Till spritty knowes wad rair't and riskit, An' slypet owre. When frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep, 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; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, Thou snoov't awa'. My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a'; That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund and twa, The very warst. Mony a sair darg we twa ha'e wrought, Yet here to crazy age we're brought, Wi' something yet. And think na, my auld trusty servan', A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane Laid by for you. We've worn to crazy years thegither; 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, Painch, tripe, or thairm; Weel are ye wordy o' a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, 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, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight! Warm-reekin', rich. Then horn for horn they stretch and strive, Are bent like drums; Then auld gudeman, maist like to rive, Is there that o'er his French ragoût, 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, Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the rustic haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, He'll mak' it whistle; And legs, and arms, and heads will sned, Ye powers, wha mak' mankind your care, 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 In whose dread presence, ere an hour |