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Is there that owre his French ragout. Or olio that would staw a sow Or fricaffce wad mak her spew, Wi‘ perfect sconner. Looks down wi sheerin scornfu' view. On sic a dinner.

Poor devil I 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 dast, O how unfit.

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He‘ll male it whistle; An‘ legs, an’ arms' an' heads will sned' Like taps o' thistle.

Ye Powers wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o’ fare, Auld Scotland wants nae stinkin' ware. That jaups in luggies; But if ye wish her gratefu prayer, Gie her a Haggis.