I've fent you here fome rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for an' mair;

Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,

I will expect,

Yon Sang* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care,
And no neglect.

Tho' faith, fma' heart hae I to fing! My Mufe dow fcarcely spread her wing! I've play'd myfel a bonnie spring,

An' danc'd my fill;

I'd better gaen an' fair'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,

VOL. II.

H

And,

*A fong he had promised the Author.

And, as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor, wee thing was little hurt;

I ftrakit 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 taen a note,

That fic a hen had got a fhot ;

I was fufpected for the plot;

I fcorn'd to lie;

So gat the whifsle o' my groat,

An' pay't the fee.

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale,

An' by my pouther an' my hail,

An'

An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

I vow an' fwear!

The Game shall pay, o'er moor an' dale,

For this, nieft year.

As foon's the clockin-time is by,
An' the wee pouts begun to cry,
L-d, I'fe hae fportin by an' by,

For my gowd guinea:

Tho' I fhould 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

So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient:

Meanwhile I am, refpected Sir,

Your moft obedient.

JOHN

JOHN BARLEYCORN*,

A

BALLA D.

I.

THERE was three kings into the east,

Three kings both great and high, An' they hae fworn a folemn oath

John Barleycorn should die.

* This is partly composed on the plan of an old fong

known by the fame name.