t,
warm-reekin', rich!
then, horn for horn, they stret' 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 ser,
looks down wi' sneering, sfu' view
on sic a dinner?
poor devil! see him owre his trash,
as feckles as wither'd rash,
his spindle shank, a guid whip-sh;
his nieve a nit;
Address To A Haggis(2/3)