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little, with the help of that partiality with which you are so good as to favour the performances of,

Dear Sir,
Your very humble Servant,

ROBERT BURNS. Wednesday Morning.

4DDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE,

WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR AT A TIME WHEN HE
WAS GRIE VOUSLY TORMENTED BY

THAT DISORDER.
My

curse on your envenom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang,
An' thro' my lugs gies mony a bang,

Wi'gnawing vengeance :
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter twang,

Like racking engines.
A'down my beard the slavers trickle,
I cast the wee stools owre the meikle,
While round the fire the hav'rels keckle,

To see me loup;
I curse an’ban, an' wish a heckle

Were i’ their doup.
When fevers burn, or agues freeze us,
Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeeze us,
Our neebors sympathize, to ease us,

Wi' pitying moan;
But thou-the hell o' a' diseases,

They mock our groan.
O' a'the num'rous human dools,
I'll bar’sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends laid i' the mools,

Sad sight to see !
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o’ fools,

Thou bear'st the gree!

Whare'er that place be priests ca’ hell,
Whare a'the tones o mis'ry yell,
An' plagues in ranked number dwell

In deadly raw,
Thou, Tooth-Ache, surely bear'st the bell

Aboon them a'!
U! thou grim mischief-makin chiel,
That gars the notes o' discord squeel,
Till human-kind aft dance a reel

In gore a shoe thick, Gie a' the faes o' Scotland weal

A TOWMOND'S TOOTH-ACHE.

LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE,

KILMARNOCH,

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS.

O Goupie! terror o' the Wigs,
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs,
Soor Bigotry, on her last legs,

Girnin' looks back,
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues

Wad seize you quick. Poor gapin glowrin Superstition, Wae's me! she's in a sad condition ; Fly, bring Black-Jock, her state Physician,

To see her w-ter;
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, gae 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:

Death soon will end her. 'Tis you and Taylor* are the chief Wha are to blame for this mischief; But gio the Lord's ain focks gat leave,

A toom tar barrel An'twa red peats wad send relief,

An' end the quarrel.

ANSWER TO A TRIMMING LETTER

FROM

A TAYLOR.
WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie b-h,
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ?
Losh, mau! hae mercy wi' your natch,

Your bodkiu's bauld,
I did pa suffer ha'f sae much

Frae Daddie Auld,
What thơ 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, gae prick the louse,

An' jag the flea.
King David, o'poetic brief,
Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief,
As fill'd his after-life with grief

An' bloody rants,
An yet he's rank'd amang the chief

O’lang syge saunta,

• Dr. Taylor of Norwich.

And may be, Tam, for a' my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an' drunken rants,
I'll gie auld cloven Clootie'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’ upo' anither plan,
Than garran lasses cowp the cran

Clean heels owre body,
And fairly 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 blam'd for jobbin.'
Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on,
And spoov'dawa' before the Session-
I made an open fair confession,

I scorn to lie;
An syne Mess John, beyond expression,

Fell foul o' me.
A fornicator lown, he call’d me,
An' said my faut frae bliss expellid me:
I own the tale was true he tell’d me,

But what the matter,
Quo' 1, “I fear, unless ye geld me,

I'll ne'er be better.' • 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 do,

Your dearest member.' Na, na, quo' I, ' I'm no for that Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't, I'd rather wiffer for my faut,

A hearty flewit,
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,

Whateer 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 came awa,

And left the Session;
I saw they were resolved a'

On my oppression.

ADDRESS TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD.

THOU's welcome, wean ; mishanter fa' me,
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy,
hall ever danton me, or awe me,

My sweet wee lady ;
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me

Tit-ta or daddy.
Wee image of my bonny Betty,
I fatherly will kiss an' daut thee,
As dear an’ near my heart I set thee

Wi'as gude will
As a' the priests had seen me get thee

That's out o’h-ll,
'What tho' they ca' me fornicator,
An' teaze my pame in kintry clatter,
The mair they tauk I'm kent the better,

E'en let them clash;
An auld wife's tongue's a eckless inatter

To gie ane fash,

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