Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle: There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred jumpin cattle,

In shoals and nations:

Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle Your thick plantations.

Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight:
Na, faith, ye yet! ye'll no be right
Till ye've got on it,

The vera tapmost, tow'ring height,
O' Miss's bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump and gray as onie grozet;
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell red smeddum,

I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,
Wad dress your droddum!

I wad na been surpris'd to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On's wyliecoat;

But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie,
How dare you do't?

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread.
Are notice takin!

O, wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!

It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
And foolish notion;

What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
And ev'n De otion!

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE.

My curse upon thy venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; An' thro' my lugs gies monie a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance! Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes,
Our neighbor's sympathy may ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;

But thee, thou hell o' a' diseases,
Ay mocks our groan!

Adown my beard the slavers trickle!
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle
To see me loup;

While, raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup!

O' a' the num'rous human dools,
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,

Or worthy friends rack'd i' the mools, Sad sight to see!

The tricks of knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw,

Thou, Toothache, 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 townmond's Toothache!

TO A HAGGIS.

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face
Great chieftain o' the puldin-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 you fill,

Your hurdies like a distant hill,

Your pin wad help to mend & nill
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 whiplash,
His nieve 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;

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!

UPON a simmer Sunday morn,

When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,

An' snuff the caller air:

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