We walked together on the sand;
The white cliffs rose and shut out sight;
And then we rested, hand in hand,
Till evening faded into night.

'Twas the last time,—another day
To busier scenes would see me gone;
How should I tear my heart away,
And leave her loveless and alone?

Long time we sat, until the hour
Clanged on our thought, and then I heard
A low, too eloquent sigh of power,
And felt a quiver like a bird.

And marked the lithe form throb and thrill,
As quick the labouring pulses came;
Great God! how near we are to ill,
Girt by dark gulfs of sin and shame.

"Be glad! 'tis nature made you so;
Put off the yoke of childish fears."
"And are there, then, no jails of woe,
No dungeons of despair and tears? "

And so we rose without a word,
And homeward through the darkness went;
Dumb, though our inmost hearts were stirred,
And, save in fancy, innocent.

'Tis three years since. To-day I pressed
The little hand I knew of old:
She bore an infant at her breast,
And on her left the sacred gold.

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 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 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,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect scunner,
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;
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 make it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
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 luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!