Sweet fruit o monie a merry dint, Which fools may scoff at; In my last plack thy part's be in't- An' if thou be what I wad hae thee, If thou be spar'd; Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee, Gude grant that thou may ay inherit "Twill please me mair to hear an' see't, TO A TAILOR, IN ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE WHICH HE HAD SENT THE AUTHOR. WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie b―h, I did na suffer half sae much Frae daddy Auld. What tho' at times, wher. I grow crouse, I gie their wames a random pouse, Is that enough for you to souse Your servant sae? Gae, mind your seam, ye prick the louse An' jag the flae. King David, o' poetic brief, Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief And, may be, Tam, for a' my cants, An' snugly sit amang the saunts, But fegs, the session says I maun Than garren lasses cowp the cran, This leads me on to tell, for sport Cried three times, "Robin! Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, A fornicator loun he call'd me, "Geld you!" quo' he, “and whatfore no, Your dearest member." "Na, na," quo' I, "I'm no for that: Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't. I'd rather suffer for my faut, A hearty flewit, As sair owre hip as ye can draw't! "Or gin ye like to end the bother, I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither, An' let her guide it." But sir, this pleas'd them warst ava, On my oppression. TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, WITH A PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR. REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart, A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; A poor, friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join The Queen, and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title's avow'd by my country. But why of that epocha make such a fuss? But loyalty, trice! we're on dangerous ground; I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard, Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long, dreary night; But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright. EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., Of Fintra. WHEN Nature her great masterpiece design'd, And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind. Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, She form'd of various parts the various man. Then first she calls the useful many forth Plain, plodding industry, and sober worth |