Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail;
Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind,
Above the narrow, rural vale :
Attentive still to Sorrow's wail,
Or modest Merit's silent claim ;
And never may their sources fail!
And never Envy blot their name !

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine;
I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own His work indeed divine!

There, watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar;
Like some bold veteran, grey in arms,

And mark'd with many a seamy scar:
The pond'rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock,

Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately Dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,
Fam'd heroes! had their royal home:
Alas, how chang'd the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust!

Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam!
Tho' rigid Law cries out "'twas just!"

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore:

ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS

Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have left their shed,
And fac'd grim Danger's loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led!

Edina Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs;
Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet,
Sat Legislation's sovereign pow'rs:
From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

Address to a Haggis.1

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie" face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm°:

Weel are ye wordyd 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 you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like ony ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

plump.

⚫ haunches.

b

paunch.

Warm-reekin, rich!

• gut.

4 worthy. fused to fasten the opening in the bag.

1 Printed in The Caledonian Mercury, Dec. 20, 1786.

www

■ horn-spoon.

d nauseate.

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 stawd 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 feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit ;g

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,

He'll mak it whissle;

An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,1
Like taps o' thrissle.

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 luggies1;

But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer

Gie her a haggis ! 1

8 his fist a nut.

h powerful.

* splashes.

J thin.

1 In the Caledonian Mercury this verse reads:

Ye Powers wha gie us a' that's gude,
Still bless auld Caledonia's brood

• shortly.

f feeble.

i alice off.

1 wooden dishes with handles,

Wi' great John Barleycorn's heart's blude

In stoups and luggies; And on our board that King o' food, A glorious Haggis !

MR WILLIAM SMELLIE

To Miss Logan,1

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.2

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.

1 The sister of Major Logan, already celebrated.

2 Burns's Edinburgh printer, who

introduced him to a society for High
Jinks, called
"The Crochallan
Fencibles."

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.2

My blessins upon thy sweet wee lippie!
My blessins upon thy bonie 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.