Is there that o'er his French _ragout_,
Or _olio_ that wad staw a sow, [sicken]
Or _fricassee_ wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering scornfu' view [disgust]
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash, [feeble, rush]
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit: [fist, nut]
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, [ample fist]
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, [crop]
Like taps o' thrissle. [thistle]
Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware [watery stuff]
That jaups in luggies; [splashes, porringers]
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!
A BARD'S EPITAPH
Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, [Too]
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, [bashful, cringe]
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, [woe]
And drap a tear.
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