LITMIR.BIZ

      Sir, o’er a gill I gat your card,

      I trow it made me proud;

      See wha tak’s notice o’ the bard

      I lap and cry’d fu’ loud.

      Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,

      The senseless, gawky million:

      I’ll cock my nose aboon them a’—

      I’m roos’d by Craigen-Gillan!

      ’Twas noble, Sir; ’twas like yoursel’,

      To grant your high protection:

      A great man’s smile, ye ken fu’ well,

      Is ay a blest infection.

      Tho’ by his[57] banes who in a tub

      Match’d Macedonian Sandy!

      On my ain legs thro’ dirt and dub,

      I independent stand ay.—

      And when those legs to gude, warm kail,

      Wi’ welcome canna bear me;

      A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,

      And barley-scone shall cheer me.

      Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath

      O’ many flow’ry simmers!

      And bless your bonnie lasses baith,

      I’m tauld they’re loosome kimmers!

      And God bless young Dunaskin’s laird,

      The blossom of our gentry!

      And may he wear an auld man’s beard,

      A credit to his country.

      “Strangely fidge and fyke.”

      It was first printed in 1801, by Stewart.]

      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 didna suffer ha’f sae much

      Frae Daddie 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’ bluidy rants,

      An’ yet he’s rank’d amang the chief

      O’ lang-syne saunts.

      And maybe, Tam, for a’ my cants,

      My wicked rhymes, an’ druken rants,

      I’ll gie auld cloven Clootie’s haunts

      An unco’ slip yet,

      An’ snugly sit among the saunts

      At Davie’s hip get.

      But fegs, the Session says I maun

      Gae fa’ upo’ anither plan,

      Than garrin 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 wi’ the Session sort,

      Auld Clinkum at the inner port

      Cried three times—“Robin!

      Come hither, lad, an’ answer for’t,

      Ye’re blamed for jobbin’.”

      Wi’ pinch I pat a Sunday’s face on,

      An’ snoov’d away before the Session;

      I made an open fair confession—

      I scorn’d to lee;

      An’ syne Mess John, beyond expression,

      Fell foul o’ me.

      I am a keeper of the law

      In some sma’ points, altho’ not a’;

      Some people tell me gin I fa’

      Ae way or ither.

      The breaking of ae point, though sma’,

      Breaks a’ thegither

      I hae been in for’t once or twice,

      And winna say o’er far for thrice,

      Yet never met with that surprise

      That broke my rest,

      But now a rumour’s like to rise,

      A whaup’s i’ the nest.

      Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf,

      Fell source o’ a’ my woe an’ grief;

      For lack o’ thee I’ve lost my lass,

      For lack o’ thee I scrimp my glass.

      I see the children of affliction

      Unaided, through thy cursed restriction

      I’ve seen the oppressor’s cruel smile

      Amid his hapless victim’s spoil:

      And for thy potence vainly wished,

      To crush the villain in the dust.

      For lack o’ thee, I leave this much-lov’d shore,

      Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.

      R. B.