My word of honour I ha'e gi'en, In faith he's sure to get him. EPISTLE TO MR. M'ADAM, OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT IN THE COMMENCEMENT OF MY POETIC CAREER. SIR, o'er a gill I gat your card, See wha taks notice o' the Bard!' 'Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, "Twas noble, sir; 'twas like yoursel, A great man's smile, ye ken fu' weel, Tho', by his banes wha in a tub On my ain legs, thro' dirt and dub, 40 30 And when those legs to gude, warm kail, A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, And barley-scone shall cheer me. Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath And bless your bonnie lasses baith,- And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, And may he wear an auld man's beard, EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie! But take it like the unback'd filly, When idly govin' whyles we saunter, Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle! Until you on a crummock driddle A gray-hair'd carl. 20 10 Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, The melancholious lazy croon, May still your life from day to day But 'allegretto forte' gay Harmonious flow, A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey Encore! Bravo! A blessing on the cheery gang But as the clegs o' feeling stang My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase May fire-side discords jar a base But come, your hand, my careless brither, We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, We've faults and failings-granted clearly, But still, but still, I like them dearly- 20 30 40 50 Ochone for poor Castalian drinkers, And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, But by yon moon!-and that's high swearin'- An' by her een wha was a dear ane! I hope to gie the jads a clearin' My loss I mourn, but not repent it, Some cantraip hour, By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, Faites mes baissemains respectueuse An' honest Lucky; no to roose you, That sic a couple Fate allows ye Nea mair at present can I measure, An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure ; But when in Ayr, some half hour's leisure, Be't light, be 't dark, Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure To call at Park. Mossgiel, October 30, 1786. 60 70 80 A POETICAL EPISTLE TO A TAILOR. WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie bitch, I didna suffer half sae much Frae Daddie Auld. What tho' at times when I grow crouse, Your servant sae? Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse King David o' poetic brief, Wrought 'mang the lasses such mischief An' bloody rants, An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants, An' snugly sit amang the saunts, But fegs! the Session says I maun Than garrin' lasses cowp the cran Clean heels owre body, And sairly thole their mither's ban ΙΟ 20 30 |