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The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,
My envy e'er could raise,
Wild floated in my brain;
She rous'd the forming strain :
That lighted up her jingle,
At every kindling keek,
I feared ay to speak.
Hail to the set, ilk guid chiel says,
An' we to share in common;
Is rapture-giving woman. Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,
Be mindfu' 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;
Thanks to you for your line.
Twad please me to the Nine.
Douse hinging o'er my curple,
An' plenty be your fa':
Ne'er at your hallan ca'.
TO J. RANKEN,
ON HIS WRITING TO THE AUTHOR THAT A GIRI,
WAS WITH CHILD BY HIM.
I Am a keeper of tlie law
Ae way or ither,
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.
TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD.
Thou's welcome, wean, mishanter fa' me,
My sweet wee lady,
Tit-ta or daddy.
Wi' as gude will
That's out o' h-.
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 olash; 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; In my last plack thy part's be in't
The better half o't,
If thou be spar'd
An' think't weel war'd.
Gude grant that thou may ay inherit
Without his failins,
Than stocket mailins,
IN ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE WHICH HE HAU
SENT THE AUTHOR.
What ails ye now, ye lousie b-h,
my back at sic a pitch? Losh man! hae mercy wi’ your natcli,
Your bodkin's bauld, I did na suffer half sae much
Frac Daddy Auld, VOL. I.
What tho' at times when I grow crouse,
Your servant sae ?
An' jag the flae.
King David o' poetic brief,
An' bloody rants,
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,
Ai Davie's hip yet.,
But fegs, the Session says I maun
Clean heels owre body, And sairly thole their mithers ban,
Afore the howdy,
This leads me on, to tell for sport, Flow 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."