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 owre his French ragout Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad make her spew Wi’ perfect sconner, Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckles as wither’d rash, His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash; His nieve a nit; Thro’ blody 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 whissle; An’ legs an’ arms, an’ hands will sned, Like taps o’ trissle. Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o’ fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer Gie her a haggis! 1787 To Miss Logan, With Beattie’s Poems, For A New-Year’s Gift, Jan. 1, 1787. Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driven, And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heaven. No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail; I send you more than India boasts, In Edwin’s simple tale. Our sex with guile, and faithless love, Is charg’d, perhaps too true; But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you. Mr. William Smellie—A Sketch Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came; The old cock’d hat, the grey surtout the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might, ’Twas four long nights and days to shaving night: His uncomb’d grizzly locks, wild staring, thatch’d A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch’d; Yet tho’ his caustic wit was biting-rude, His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. Rattlin’, Roarin’ Willie^1 As I cam by Crochallan, I cannilie keekit ben; Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie Was sittin at yon boord-en’; Sittin at yon boord-en, And amang gude companie; Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie, You’re welcome hame to me! Song—Bonie Dundee My blessin’s upon thy sweet wee lippie! My blessin’s upon thy e’e-brie! Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, Thou’s aye the dearer, and dearer to me! But I’ll big a bow’r on yon bonie banks, Whare Tay rins wimplin’ by sae clear; An’ I’ll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine, And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear. Extempore In The Court Of Session Tune—“Killiercrankie.” Lord Advocate