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ENCLOSING
SOME POEMS
O
rough, rude, ready?witted Rankine,
The wale o cocks for fun an drinkin!
There's monie godly folks are thinkin
Your dreams and tricks
Will send you, Korah?like, a?sinkin
Straught to Auld Nick's.
Ye hae
sae monie cracks an cants,
And in your wicked drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o the saunts,
An fill them fou;
And then their failings, flaws, an wants,
Are a' seen thro.
Hypocrisy,
in mercy spare it!
That holy robe, O, dinna tear it!
Spare't for their sakes, wha aften wear it ?
The lads in black;
But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives't aff their back.
Think,
wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing:
It's just the Blue?gown badge an claithing
O saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething
To ken them by
Frae onie unregenerate heathen,
Like you or I.
I've
sent you here some rhymin 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, sma' heart hae I to sing:
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing!
I've play'd mysel a bonie spring,
An danc'd my fill!
I'd better gaen an sair't the King
At Bunker's Hill.
'Twas
ae night lately, in my fun,
I gaed a rovin wi the gun,
An brought a paitrick to the grun' ?
A bonie hen;
And, as the twilight was begun,
Thought nane wad ken.
The
poor, wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit 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 sic a hen had got a shot;
I was suspected for the plot;
I scorn'd to lie;
So gat the whissle o my groat,
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, owre moor an dale,
For this, niest year!
As
soon's the clockin?time is by,
An the wee pouts begun to cry,
Lord, I'se hae sportin by an by
For my gowd guinea;
Tho I should herd the buckskin kye
For't, in Virginia!
Trowth,
they had muckle for to blame!
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa?three chaps 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, respected Sir,
Your most obedient.
Poem Index
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