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Forjesket fair, with weary legs, Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro' amang the naigs

Their ten hours bite, My awkart Muse fair pleads and begs,

I wou'd na write.

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie,
She's faft at best, and something lazy,
Quo' she, Ye ken, we've been sae busy,

This month an' mair, • That trouth my head is grown right dizzie,

An' something fair.'

Her dowff excuses pat me mad; • Conscience,' says I, ye thowless jad! • I'll write, an' that a hearty bląud,

• This vera night; So dinna ye affront your trade,

t'u • But rhyme it right.


Shall bauld L*****k, the king o' hearts, · Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, • Roose you fae weel for your deserts,

• In terms sae friendly, • Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts,

• An' thank him kindly !'

Sae I gat paper in a blink,
An' down gaed stumpie in the ink:
Quoth I, • Before I sleep a wink,

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
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegether,
Or fome hotch-potch that's rightly neither,

Let time mak proof;
But I shall fcribble down fome blether
Just clean aff-loof.


My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Tho' Fortune use you hard an' sharp ; Come, kittle up your moorland barp

Wi' gleesome touch! Ne'er mind how Fortune waft an' warp;

She's but a b-tch.

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg,
Sin I could striddle owre a rig ;
But, by the Ld, tho' I should beg

Wi' lyart pow,
I'll laugh, an' fing, an' shake my leg,

As lang's I dow!

Now comes the fax an' twentieth limmer,
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,
Still persecuted by the limmer

Frae year to year ;
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,
I, Rob, am here.


Do ye envy the city Gent,
Behint a kist to lie and sklent,
Or purse proud, big wi'cent. per cent.

And muckle wame,
In some bit Brugh to represent

A Bailie's name?

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane,
Wi' ruffl'd fark an' glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-fhank bane,

But lordly stalks,
While caps and bonnets aff are taen,

As by he walks ?

Thou wha gies us each guid gift! • Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, • Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,

· 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 Heav'n, that's no the gate

We learn our creed.

For thus the royal Mandate ran, When first the human race began, • The social, friendly, honest man,

• Whate'er he be, “ 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan,

An none but be!

O Mandate glorious and divine !
The followers of the ragged Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine

In glorious light,
While fordid fons of Mammon's line

Are dark as night. Vol. II.



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