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Think, wicked sinner, wha ye 're skaithing," It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing O' saunts, tak that, ye la'et them naething To ken them by,

Frae onie unregenerate heathen

Like you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair:
Sae, when you hae an hour to spare,
I will expect

Yon sang," ye 'll sen 't wi' canniew care,
And no neglect.

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!
My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing!
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring,
An' danc'd my fill;

I'd better gaen an' sair'd2 the king
At Bunker's Hill.

'Twas ae night, lately, in my fun,
I gaed a-roving wi' the gun,

An' brought a paitrick to the grun',
A bonnie hen,

An' as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt;

I straikete it a wee for sport,

Ne'er thinkin' they wad fashd me for't;

But deil-ma-care !

Somebody tells the poacher-court

The halee affair

Some auld-us'd hands had taen a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot;

r injuring. s Saints.

A song he had promised the Author.

Can, or dare.

? Leave.

w Dexterous.

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A Scottish reel.
Ground

z Served.

a A partridge.

c Stroked.

d Trouble.

e Whole.

I was suspected for the plot;

I scorn'd to lie,

So gat the whissle o' my grot,e

An' pay't the fee.

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale,'
An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

I vow an' swear!

The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale,
For this, neist year.

As soon 's the clocking-time is by
An' the wee pouts begun to cry
Lord, I 'se hae sporting by an' bye,
For my gowd guinea,

Tho' I should herd the buckskin kyel
For 't in Virginia

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps about the wamek

Scarce thro' the feathers;
And baith a yellow George to claim,
An' thole their blethers!!

It pits me ay as mad 's a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time 's expedient:

Meanwhile I am, respected sir,

Your most obedient.

TO THE SAME,

On his writing to the author that a girl was with child by him.

I AM a keeper of the law

In some sma' points, altho' not a';

I played a lozing game. ƒThe choice.

h Hatching-time.

g Shot.

i Be transportea to America, and made a cow-herd.
Endure their abuse.

Belly.

Some people tell me ginm I fa'
Ae way or ither,

The breaking of ae point, tho' sma',
Breaks a' thegither.

I hae been in for 't ance or twice,
And winna say o'er far for thrice,
Yet never met with that surprise
That broke my rest,

But now a rumour 's like to rise,

A whaupn 's i' the nest.

TO DR. BLACKLOCK.

Ellisland, Oct. 21, 1789.

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie !
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ?P
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie"
Wad bring ye to:

Lord send you ay as weel 's I want ye,
And then ye 'll do.

The ill-thief blaw the Heron" south!
And never drink be near his drouth!
He tald mysel', by word o' mouth,
He'd tak my letter !

I lippen'ds to the chielt in trouth

And bade nae better.

But aiblins" honest Master Heron
Had at the time some dainty fair one,
To ware his theologic care on,

And holy study;

An' tir'd o' sauls to waste his learw on,
E'en tried the body.

But what d' ye think, my trusty fier ?*
I'm turn'd a guager-peace be here!

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Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear,

Ye 'll now disdain me,

And then my fifty pounds a year
Will little gain me

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies,
Wha by Castalia's wimplin' streamies,
Loup, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken,

That strang necessity supreme is

’Mang sons o’ men.

I hae a wife and twa weea laddies,

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies;b
Ye ken yoursel my heart right proud is,
I needna vaunt,

But I'll snede besoms-thraw saugh woodies,
Before they want.

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care!

I'm weary sick o't late and air !e

Not but I hae a richer share

Than monie ithers;

But why should ae man better fare,
And a' men brithers?

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van,
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man!
And let us mind faint heart ne'er wan
A lady fair:

Wha does the utmost that he can,

Will whyles' do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme,

(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) To make a happy fire-side clime

To weans and wife,

That's the true pathos and sublime

y Inattentive.

Of human life.

z Meandering.

b Food and raiment.

a Little. c Lop, or cut. d Twist willow ropes. e Late and early. 'Sometimes.

d

My compliments to sister Beckie;
And eke the same to honest Luckie
I wats she is a daintie chuckie,

As e'er tread clay!

An' gratefully, my guid auld cockie,
I'm yours for ay.

ROBERT BURNS.

TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER,

Dumfries, 1796.

My honour'd Colonel, deep I feel
Your int'rest in the Poet's weal;
Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speelh
The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus pill

And potion glasses.

O what a cantie1 warl were it,

Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it;
And Fortune favour worth and merit,
As they deserve;

(And ay a rowthk roast-beef and claret,
Syne' wha wad starve ?)

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsickerm

I've found her still,

Ay wavering like the willow-wicker,

'Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrans" by a rattan,
Our sinfu' saul to get a clautp on

Wi' felon ire;

Syne, whip! his tail ye 'll ne'er cast saut on, He's aff like fire.

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h To climb.

i Cheerful.
n The cat.

A Plenty.

m Unsteady. To get hold of.

Then.

o A rac.

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