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The poor, wee thing was little hurt
The hale affair.
Some auld-us'd hands had taen a note That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot ;
I scorn'a to lie,
An' pay't the fee.
I vow an' swear!
For this, niest year.
For my gowd guinea
For't in Virginia. Trowih, they had muckle for to blame ! 'Twas neither broken wing uor 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 mo ay as mad's a háre;
But pennyworths again is fair,
When time's expedient;
Your most obedient.
Ellisland, Oct. 21, 1789
Wad bring ye too :
And then ye'll do.
He'd tak my letter;
And bade nae better.
But aiblins honest Master Heron
And holy study;
E'en tried the body. *Mr. Heron, author of a History of Scotland, an of various other works,
But what'd'ye think, my trusty fier, I'm turn'd a guager-peace be here! Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear
Ye'll now disdain me,
Will little gain me.
Ye ken, ye ken,
'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
Than mony ithers ;
And a'men brithers?
Come, Firm Resolvę, take thou the van,
A lady fair ;
Will whyles do mair.
But to conclude my silly rhyme, (I'm scant o'verse, and scani o' time.)
To make a happy fire-side clime
To weans and wife, That's the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.
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'in yours for ay.
COLONEL DE PEYSTER.
My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel
The steep Parnassus,
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-becf and claret ;
Sine wha wasi 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,
To put us daft;
O'hell's damn'd wast.
Poor man the flie, aft bizzes by,
And hellish pleasure;
Thy sicker treasure.
And murdering wrestle,
A gibbet's tassel.