ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE.
And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an' drunken 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' upon anither plan,
Than garren lasses cowp the cran
Clean heels owre body, And sairly thole their mither's 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
Cry'd three times,' Robin!'
Come hither, lad, an' answer for't,
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,
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o' me.
A fornicator-loun he call'd me,
An' said my fau't frae bliss expell'd me;
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,
But what the matter?'
Quo' I, I fear unless ye geld me,
I'll ne'er be better.'
ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE.
'Geld you!' quo' he,' and whatfore no? If that your right hand, leg, or toe, Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe,
You shou'd remember
To cut it aff, an' 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
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 her't a' thegither,
An' let her guide it.'
But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava,
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
I said, Gude night,' and cam awa,
And left the Session;
I saw they were resolved a'
On the Publication of his Essays.
O GOUDIE! terror o' the Whigs,
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs,
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girnin' looks back,
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues
Wad seize you quick.
Poor gapin' glowrin' Superstition,
Waes me! she's in a sad condition;
Fy, bring Black-Jock, her state physician,
To see her water;
Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.
Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
But now she's got an unco ripple;
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel,
Nigh unto death;
See how she fetches at the thrapple,
An' gasps for breath.
Enthusiasm's past redemption,
Gaen in a galloping consumption,
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
Will ever mend her,
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
"Tis you and Taylor' are the chief,
Wha are to blame for this mischief;
But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave,
A toom tar-barrel
An' twa red peats wad send relief,
An' end the quarrel.
LETTER TO J—S T—T, GL-NC-R.
AULD Comrade dear and brither sinner,
How's a' the folk about Gl-nc-r;
How do you this blae eastlin wind,
That's like to blaw a body blind?
For me, my faculties are frozen,
My dearest member nearly dozen'd.
I've sent you here by Johnie Simson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
An' Reid, to common sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled,
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled,
Till, wi' their logic jargon tir'd,
An' in the depth of science mir'd,
To common sense they now appeal,
What wives an' wabsters see an' feel.
But, hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly,
Peruse them, an' return them quickly,
For now I'm grown sae cursed douse,
I pray an' ponder butt the house,
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin',
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston;
LETTER TO JS T-T.
Till by an' by, if I haud on,
I'll grunt a real Gospel-groan:
Already I begin to try it,
To cast my een up like a pyet,
When by the gun she tumbles o'er,
Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore:
Sae shortly you shall see me bright,
A burning an' a shining light.
My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,
The ace an' wale of honest men:
When bending down wi' auld grey hairs,
Beneath the load of
and cares,
May he who made him still support him,
An' views beyond the grave comfort him,
His worthy fam'ly far and near,
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear!
My auld school-fellow, Preacher Willie,
The manly tar, my mason Billie,
An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy;
If he's a parent, lass or boy,
May he be dad, and Meg the mither,
Just five and forty years thegither!
An' no forgetting wabster Charlie,
I'm tauld he offers very fairly.
An' L-d, remember singing Sannock,
Wi' hale-breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock.
An' next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy,
Since she is fitted to her fancy;
An' her kind stars hae airted till her
A guid chiel wi' a pickle siller.
My kindest, best respects I sen' it,
To cousin Kate an' sister Janet;
Tell them frae me, wi' chiels be cautious,
For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashous:
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