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 whipsh;

his nieve a nit;

thro' blody flood or field to dash,

o how unfit!

but mark the rustic, is-fed,

the trembling earth resounds his tread.

p in his walie nieve a de,

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 scond wants nae skinking ware

that jaups in ies;

but, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer

gie her a is!