The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide My envy e'er could raise, III. But still the elements o' sang She rous'd the forming strain: At every kindling keek, But bashing, and dashing, IV. Hail to the set, ilk guid chiel says, Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, She honest woman, may think shame That ye're connected with her.. Ye're wae men, ye're nae men, V. For you, na bred to barn or byre, March, 1787. R. BURNS. TO J. RANKEN, 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'; 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 rumor's like to rise, A whaup's i' the nest. ADDRESS TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD. THOU's welcome, wean, mishanter fa' me, My sweet wee lady, Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me Wee image of my bonie Betty, As a' the priests had seen me get thee What tho' they ca' me fornicator, An' tease my name in kintry-clatter: The mair they tauk I'm kent the better, E'en let them clash; An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter To gie ane fash. Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint, Which fools may scoff at; 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 her an' see't, ΤΟ 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 VOL. I.-Q Frac Daddy 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, An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief And, maybe, Tam for a' my cants, My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants, I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts An unco slip yet, An' snugly sit amang the saunts, At Davie's hip yet.. But fegs, the Session says I maun Gae fa' upo' anither plan, Than garren lesses cowp the cran Clean heels owre body, And sairly thole their mithers ban, Afore the howdy, This leads me on, to tell for sport, How I did with the Session sortAuld Clinkum at the inner port Cry'd three times, "Robin! Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, Ye're blam'd for jobbin." |