網頁圖片
PDF
ePub 版

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 guid will,
As a’ the priests had seen me get thee,

That's out o' h-11.

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,
My funny tiel 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 loyin 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 hear an' see't,

Than stocket mailins.

TO A TAILOR,

IN ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE WHICH HE HAD SENT TER

AUTHOR

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

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

Frae daddy Auld.

What tho' at times, when I grow crouse,
I gie their wames a random 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 mischief
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, may be, 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 lasses 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

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,
An' snoov'd awa' before the session;
I made an open, fair confession,

I scorn'd to lie;
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,

Fell foul o' me.

A fornicator loun he callid me,
An' said my faut frae bliss expell?d me;
I own'd the tale was true he telld 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:
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca’t.
I'd rather suffer for my faut,

A hearty flewit,
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't!

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' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
I said “ Guid night," and cam awa',

An' left the session ;
I saw they were resolved a'

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;
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,

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,
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ;

Their title's avow'd by my country.

« 上一頁繼續 »