Ye hae fae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, druken rants, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' feen thro'. Hypocrify, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it! Spare't for their fakes wha aften wear it, The lads in black; But your curft 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 naithing To ken them by, Frae ony unregenerate Heathen Like you or I. I've sent you here fome rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for an' mair; Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, I will expect, Yon Sang* ye'll fen't wi' cannie care, Tho' faith, fma' heart hae I to fing! My Mufe dow scarcely spread her wing! I've play'd myfel a bonnie spring, An' danc'd my fill; I'd better gaen an' fair'd the King, At Bunker's Hill. 'Twas ae night lately in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a Paitrick to the grun', VOL. II. A bonnie hen, H And, * A fong he had promised the Author. And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken, The poor, wee thing was little hurt; I ftrakit it a wee for fport, 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 fic a hen had got a fhot; I was fufpected for the plot; I fcorn'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' An' by my hen, an' by her tail, I vow an' fwear! The Game fhall pay, o'er moor an' dale, For this, nieft year. As foon's the clockin-time is 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 draps about the wame Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers! |