Page:Auld farmer's salutation to his auld mare Maggy, on giving her a ripp of corn, to Hansel in the New Year.pdf/7



AIR 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 o‘ 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 ye up wi‘ ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious light, Warm-reekin, rich!

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, That nane be hindmost, on they drive, Till a' heir weel-swall'd kyts belyve, Are bent like drums;