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The Hero of these artless strains,
Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains,
Kind Nature's care had given his share
He felt the powerful, high behest
Propitious Powers screen'd the young flow'rs,
From mildews of abortion;
And lo! the bard-a great reward
Has got a double portion!
Auld cantie Coil may count the day,
As annual it returns,
The third of Libra's equal sway,
That gave another Burns,
With future rhymes, an' other times,
To emulate his sire:
To sing auld Coil in nobler style,
Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song,
With multiplying joys;
Lang may she stand to prop the land,
Mr Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows:
Wr braw new branks in mickle pride,
My Pegasus I'm got astride,
And up Parnassus pechin;
Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush,
Then up he gets, and off he sets,
I doubt na, lass, that weel ken'd name
I am nae stranger to your fame,
Auld truth hersel' might swear ye're fair,
I doubt na fortune may you shore'
And band upon his breastie :
1 Given to Lockhart by Lady Harriet Don, “ a divine lady.'
But oh! what signifies to you
Some gapin, glowrin countra laird
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelpd
Forgive the Bard! my fond regard
Reply to a Trimming Epistle received
WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie bitch
I didna suffer half sae much
Frae Daddie Auld.
REPLY TO A TAILOR'S EPISTLE
What tho' at times, when I grow crouse,a
I gie their wames a random pouse,
Your servant sae?
Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,
King David, o' poetic brief,
Wrocht 'mang the lasses sic mischief
An' yet he's rank'd among the chief
And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,
An' snugly sit amang the saunts,
But, fegs! the session says I maun
Than garrin lasses coup the cran,d
An' sairly thole their mother's ban
This leads me on to tell for sport,
Cried three times, "Robin!
Come hither lad, and answer for't,
Ye're blam'd for jobbin!"
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, Fell foul o' me.
A fornicator-loun he call'd me,
An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me; I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, "But, what the matter? (Quo' I) I fear unless ye geld me,
I'll ne'er be better!"
"Geld you! (quo' he) an' what for no? If that your right hand, leg, or toe Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, You should remember
To cut it aff-an' what for no
Your dearest member?"