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I hae been in for't ance or twice,
That broke my rest;
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 guid will,
That's out o' h-11.
What tho’ they ca’ me fornicator,
E’en let them clash;
To gie ane fash.
Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint,
Which fools may scoff at;
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.
TO A TAILOR,
IN ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE WHICH HE HAD SENT TER
What ails ye now, ye lousie b-h,
Your bodkin's bauld;
Frae daddy Auld.
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, may be, Tam, for a' my cants,
An unco slip yet;
At Davie's hip yet.
But fegs, the session says I maun
Clean heels owre body,
Afore the howdy.
This leads me on to tell, for sport
Cried three times, “ Robin! Come hither, lad, an' answer fort,
Ye're blam'd for jobbin."
Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on,
I scorn'd to lie;
Fell foul o' me.
A fornicator loun he callid me,
“But what the matter? Quo' I, “I fear, unless ye geld me,
I'll ne'er be better."
“Geld you !” quo' he, “and whatfore no, If that your right hand, leg, or toe, Should ever prove your spir’tual foe,
You should remember To cut it aff, and whatfore no
Your dearest member.”
“Na, na," quo' I, “I'm no for that:
A hearty flewit,
Tho' I should rue it.
“Or gin ye like to end the bother, To please us a’ I've just ae ither ; When next wi' yon lass I forgather,
Whate'er betide it, I'll frankly gie hert a' thegither,
An' let her guide it."
But, sir, this pleas'd them warst ava,
An' left the session ;
On my oppression.
TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER,
WITH A PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR.
REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,
But now 'tis despised and neglected.
Tho’ something like moisture conglobes in my eye,
Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; A poor, friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,
Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.
My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne;
My fathers have fallen to right it;
That name should he scoffingly slight it.
Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry,
Their title's avow'd by my country.