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The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,
My envy e'er could raise,
I knew nae higher praise.
But still the elements o sang
Wild floated in my brain ;
She rous'd the forming strain : I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
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 mindful o'
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 GIRL
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.
Wee image of my bonie Betty,
Wi' as gude will
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,
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,
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 HAD
SENT THE AUTHOR.
What ails ye now, ye lousie b--h,
Your bodkin's bauld,
Frac Daddy Auld, VOL. I.-Q
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,
Af Davie's hip yete
But fegs, the Session says I maun
Clean heels owre body,
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."