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I've sent you here fome rhyming ware,
I will expect,
And no neglect.
Tho' faith, sma’ heart hae I to fing!
An' danc'd my fill;
At Bunker's Hill.
'Twas ae night lately in my fun,
A bonnie hen,
And, as the twilight was begun,
Thought nane wad ken.
The poor, wee thing was little hurt;
But, Deil-ma-care !
The hale affair,
Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note,
I scorn'd to lie;
An' pay't the fee.
But, by my gun, o' guns
the wale, An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,
I vow an' swear ! The Game shall pay, o'er moor an' dale,
For this, niest year.
As soon's the clockin-time is by,
For my gowd guinea :
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;
When time's expedient : Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,
Your most obedient.
JOHN JOHN BARLEYCORN*,