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The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide

Amang the bearded bear,
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside,
An’spar'd the symbol dear;
No nation, no station,

My envy e'er could raise,
A Scot still, but blot still,

I knew nae higher praise.

III.

But still the elements o sang
In formless junible, right an' wrang,

Wild floated in my brain ;
Till on that har'st I said before,
My partner in the merry core,

She rous'd the forming strain : I see her yet, the sonsie quean,

That lighted up her jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky e'en
That gart my heart-strings tingle;
I fired, inspired,

At every kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,

I feared ay to speak.

IV.

Hail to the set, ilk guid chiel says,
Wi’ merry dance in winter-days,

An' we to share in common;
The gust o' joy, the balm of wo,
The saul o’life, the heav'n below,

Is rapture-giving woman. Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, Be mindful o'

your

mither ; She honest woman, may think shame

That ye're connected with her..

Ye're wae men, ye're nae men,

That slight the lovely dears;
To shame ye, disclaim ye,
Ilk honest birkie swears.

V.
For you, na bred to barn or byre,
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,

Thanks to you for your line.
The marled plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;

Twad please me to the Nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,

Douse hinging o'er my curple,
Than onie ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Fareweel then, lang hale then,

An' plenty be your fa':
May losses and crosses

Ne'er at your hallan ca'.
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 tlie law
In some sma' points, altho' not a';
Some people tell me gin 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 rumor's like to rise,

A whaup's i' the nest.

ADDRESS

TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD.

THOU's welcome, wean, mishanter fa' me,
If aught of thee, or of thy mammy,
Shall ever danton me, or awe me,

My sweet wee lady,
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me

Tit-ta or daddy.

Wee image of my bonie Betty,
I fatherly will kiss an' daut thee,
As dear an' near my heart I set thee

Wi' as gude will
As a' the priests had seen me get thee

That's out o' h-ll.

What tho' they came fornicator, An' tease my name in kintry-clatter: The inair they tauk I'm kent the better,

E'en let them olash; An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter

To gie ane fash.

Sweet fruit o'monie a merry dint,
My funny teil is now a' tint,
Sin' thou came to the warl asklent,

Which fools may scoff at; In my last plack thy part's be in't

The better half o't,

An' if thou be what I wad hae thee,
An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
A lovin father I'll be to thee,

If thou be spar'd
Thro’a'thy childish years I'll e'e thee,

An' think't weel war'd.

Gude grant that thou may ay inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit,

Without his failins,
"Twill please me mair to her an' see't,

Than stocket mailins,

TO

A TAILOR,

IN ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE WHICH HE HAD

SENT THE AUTHOR.

What ails ye now, ye lousie b--h,
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ?
Losh man! hae mercy, wi’ your natcii,

Your bodkin's bauld,
I did na suffer half sae much

Frac Daddy Auld, VOL. I.-Q

What tho' at times when I grow crouse,
I gie their wames a laudom 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 mischiet
As fill d his after life wi' grief

An' bloody rants,
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief

O’ lang syne saunts.

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,

Af Davie's hip yete

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 sort Auld Clinkum at the inner port

Cry'd three times, “Robin! Come hither, lad, an answer fort,

Ve're blam'd for jobbin."

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