Page:Auld farmer's salutation to his auld mare Maggy, on giving her a ripp of corn, to Hansel in the New Year.pdf/8

 Then auld guideman, maist like to rive, Bethankit hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout, Or olio that would staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew, Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi- sneerin 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' bluiddy 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 bled, He'll mak' it whissle, An' legs, an' arms' an' heads 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 nae stinkin ware, That jups in luggies; But if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r. Gie her a Haggis!