The poor, wee thing was little hurt Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't Somebody tells the poacher-court Some auld-us'd hands had taen a note That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot; 1 scorn'd to lie, So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee. But, by my gun, o' guns the wale I vow an' swear! The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale. As soon's the clockin-time is by, For my gowd guinea Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! "Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An'thole their blethers! It pits me ay as mad's a hare; But pennyworths again is fair, When time's expedient; Meanwhile 1 am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. TO. DR. BLACKLOCK. Ellisland, Oct. 21, 1789 Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye, The ill-thief blaw the Heron* south! He'd tak my letter; I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth And bade nae better. But aiblins honest Master Heron And holy study; And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on, E'en tried the body. *Mr. Heron, author of a History of Scotland, a f various other works. But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, fear And then my fifty pounds a-year Will little gain me. Ye glaiket, gleesome, daintie damies, Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies, Lowp, 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 wee laddies, They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies; Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is, I need na vaunt, But I'll sned besoms-thraw saugh woodies, Before they want, Lord help me thro' this warld o' care I'm weary sick o't late and air! Not but I hae a richer share Than mony 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 That's the true pathos and sublime My compliments to sister Beckie; And eke the same to honest Lucky, I wat she is a dainty chuckie, As e'er tread clay! An' gratefully, my guid auld cockie, I'm yours for ay. ROBERT BURNS. ΤΟ COLONEL DE PEYSTER. DUMFRIES, 1796. My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel And potion glasses. O what a canty warld were it, Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it; And fortune favor worth and merit, As they deserve: (And aye a rowth, 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 unsicker 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 claut on Wi' felon ire; Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, He's aff like fire. Ah! Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair, Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare, Poor man the flie, aft bizzes by, And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, And hellish pleasure; Already in thy fancy's eye, Thy sicker treasure. Soon heels o'er gowdie! in he gangs, A's dangling in the wind, he hangs A gibbet's tassel." But lest you think I am uncivil, |