Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel:

The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel,

Brings hard owrehip, wi sturdy wheel,

The strong forehammer,

Till block an studdie ring an reel,

Wi dinsome clamour.

When skirlin weanies see the light,

Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,

How fumblin coofs their dearies slight;

Wae worth the name!

Nae howdie gets a social night,

Or plack frae them.

When neebors anger at a plea,

An just as wud as wud can be,

How easy can the barley-brie

Cement the quarrel!

It’s aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee,

To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e’er my Muse has reason,

To wyte her countrymen wi treason!

But monie daily weet their weason

Wi liquors nice,

An hardly, in a winter season,

E’er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash!

Fell source o monie a pain an brash!

Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash

O half his days;

An sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash

To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well,

Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,

Poor, plackless devils like myself,

It sets you ill,

Wi bitter, dearthfu wines to mell,

Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench,

An gouts torment him, inch by inch,

Wha twists his gruntle wi a glunch

O sour disdain,

Out owre a glass o whisky-punch

Wi honest men!

O Whisky! soul o plays an pranks!

Accept a Bardie’s gratefu thanks!

When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks

Are my poor verses!

Thou come – they rattle i’ their ranks,

At ither’s arses!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!

Scotland lament frae coast to coast!

Now colic grips, an barkin hoast

May kill us a’;

For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast

Is ta’en awa!

Thae curst horse-leeches o th’ Excise,

Wha mak the whisky stills their prize!

Haud up thy han’, Deil! ance, twice, thrice!

There, seize the blinkers!

An bake them up in brunstane pies

For poor damn’d drinkers.

Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still

Hale breeks, a scone, an whisky gill,

An rowth o rhyme to rave at will,

Tak a’ the rest

An deal’t about as thy blind skill

Directs thee best.

ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS

Fair 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 of 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 slight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin, rich!

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;

The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,

Bethankit hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,