Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, drucken rants, Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithnig, Its just the blue-gown badge an' claithing O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naithingTo ken them by, Frae ony unregenerate heathen Like you or I. I've sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for an' mair; VOL. III. S Sae, Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, Yon sang,* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing! I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, An' danc'd my fill I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king At Bunker's Hill. 'Twas ae night lately in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun, A bonnie hen, And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. * A song he had promised the Author. The The poor wee thing was little hurt ; I straikit it a wee for sport, Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't; But, deil-ma-care! Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note, That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot; I scorn'd to lie; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee. But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, An' by my pouther an' my hail, An' by my hen, an' by her tail, As soon's the clockin-time is by, For my gowd guinea: Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye For't, in Virginia. Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers! It pits me ay as mad's a hare; When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. JOHN |