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In ploughman phrase, “God send you speed,"

Still daily to grow wiser:
And may you better reck the rede,

Than ever did th' adviser,




A' ye 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' a jink,

An' owre the sea.

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

In social key; For now he's taen 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,

W' 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 taen ait some drowsy bumble, 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, cas

Kyle may weepers wear, An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ;

'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,

In finders 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;
A jillet 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 bellyfu' o' drummock, 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 misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ;

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 aye 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 bunnilie! 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 wordy of 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,
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright

Like onie ditch ;
And then, 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 to rive,

Bethankit hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout,
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 nieve a nit; Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,

O bow 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' head 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 Dae skinking ware

That jaups in luggies ;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray’r,

Gie her a haggis!



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


great an' noble bluid,
Because ye’re sirnam'd like his grace,
Perhaps related to the race;
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 whą
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou i
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 :

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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 no refus't,
'Till aft his guidness is abus'd;
And 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; It's naething but a milder feature of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature : Ye'll get the best of 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 and deed, It's no thro' terror of d-mn-ti-on; It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain!
Vain is his hor whose stay and trust is
In moral mercy, truth and justice !

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