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Her dowff excuses pat me mad; Conscience,' says I, ' ye thowless jad, • I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,
This vera night,
• But rhyme it right.
Shall bauld L*****k, the king o' hearts, "Tho' mankind were a pack o'cartes, Roose
• In terms sae friendly, Yet ye'll negle& to shaw your parts
• An'thank him kindly?
Sae I gat paper in a blink,
• I vow I'll close it ; ' An' if ye winna mak it clink,
. By Jove I'll prose it!
Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether
Let time mak proof;
Just clean aff-loof.
My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp, Come, kittle up your moorland harp
Wi' gleefome touch! Ne'er mind how Fortune waft an’ warp ;
She's but a b-tch.
She's gien me monie a jirt an' ileg
Wi' lyart pow,
I'll laugh, an' fing, an' shake my leg,
As lang's I dow!
Now comes the fax an' twentieth simmer, I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, Still persecuted by the limmer
Frae year to year ; But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,
1, Rob, am bere,
Do ye envy the city Gent,
An' muckle wame,
A Bailie's name?
Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, Wi' rufi'd fark an glancing cane
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks,
As by he walks?
• Thro' Scotland wide ; Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift
• In a' their pride!
Were this the charter of our state
On pain o' hell be rich an' great, Damnation then would be our fate,
Beyond remead; But, thanks to Hear'n, that's so the gate
We learn our creed.
For thus the royal Mandate ran, When first the human race began, The focial, friendly, honeft man
« Whate'er he be, " 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan,
• And none but he.'
O Mandate, glorious and divine !
In glorious light.
While sordid sons o' Mammon's line
Are dark as night.
Tho' here they fcrape, an' [queeze, an' growl, Their worthlefs nievefu' of a foul May in fome future carcafe how!
The forest's fright; Or in some day.detefting owl
May laun the light.
Then may Z*****k and B**** arise,
In some 'mild sphere.
Each paffing year!
; Wi' gratefu' heart I thank
, Tho'l maun fay't, I wad bé filly,
An unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin billie,
Your flatterin strain.
But I'fe believe ye kindly meant it,
On my poor
Mulic Tho' in fic phrafin terms ye've penn'd it,
I scarce excuse ye.
My fenfes wad be in a creel, Should I but dare to hope to speel Wi' Allan, or wi’ Gilbert field,
The braes o' fame ; Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel,
A deathleis name.