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His knife see Rustic labour dight,
And cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenchin your gushin entrails bright
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm, reeking, richǃ
And cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenchin your gushin entrails bright
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm, reeking, richǃ
Then, horn for horn, they stretch and strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes, belyve,
Are bent like drums;
Then auld gudeman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes, belyve,
Are bent like drums;
Then auld gudeman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.
Is there that owre his French ragou,
Or olio that wad staw a sow.
O fricasee wad mak him spew,
Wi' perfect scunner,
Looks down wi' sneerin, scornful view,
On sic a dinner!
Or olio that wad staw a sow.
O fricasee wad mak him spew,
Wi' perfect scunner,
Looks down wi' sneerin, scornful view,
On sic a dinner!
Poor devil! sec him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash.
His spindle-shank a gude whup-lash.
His nieve a-nit,
Thro' bluidy flood, or field in dash,
O how nufit!
As feckless as a wither'd rash.
His spindle-shank a gude whup-lash.
His nieve a-nit,
Thro' bluidy flood, or field in dash,
O how nufit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread!
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads, will sued,
Like taps o' thrissle.
The trembling earth resounds his tread!
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads, will sued,
Like taps o' thrissle.
