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176
THE POEMS OF BURNS.
ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE
SENT THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR.
What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch,
To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch,
Your bodkin's bauld,
I didna suffer ha'f sae much
Frae Daddie Auld.
To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch,
Your bodkin's bauld,
I didna suffer ha'f sae much
Frae Daddie Auld.
What tho' at times when I grow crouse,
I gi'e their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse
Your servant sae?
Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,
An' jag-the-flae.
I gi'e their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse
Your servant sae?
Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,
An' jag-the-flae.
King David o' poetic brief,
Wrought 'mang the lasses such mischief
As fill'd his after life wi' grief
An' bloody rants,
An yet he's rank'd amang the chief
O' lang-syne saunts.
Wrought 'mang the lasses such mischief
As fill'd his after life wi' grief
An' bloody rants,
An yet he's rank'd amang the chief
O' lang-syne saunts.
And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants,
I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts
An unco slip yet,
An' snugly sit amang the saunts,
At Davie's hip yet.
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants,
I'll gie auld cloven Clooty'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 garren lasses cowp the cran
Clean heels owre body,
And sairly thole their mither's ban
Afore the howdy.
Gae fa' upo' anither plan,
Than garren lasses cowp the cran
Clean heels owre body,
And sairly 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
Cry'd three times, 'Robin!
Come hither, lad, an' answer for't,
Ye're blam'd for jobbin'.'
How I did wi' the Session sort—
Auld Clinkum at the Inner port
Cry'd 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,
An' snoov'd awa' before the Session—
I made an open fair confession,
I scorn'd to lie;
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o' me.
An' snoov'd awa' before the Session—
I made an open fair confession,
I scorn'd to lie;
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o' me.
A furnicator-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.'
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, 'and whatfor 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 no
Your dearest member?'
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 no
Your dearest member?'
'Na, na,' quo' I, 'I'm no for that,
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't,
I'd rather suffer for my faut,
A hearty flewit.
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't,
Tho' I should rue it.
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't,
I'd rather suffer 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,
Whate'er betide it,
I'll frankly gi'e her't a'thegither,
An' let her guide it'
To please us a', I've just ae ither,
When next wi' yon lass I forgather,
Whate'er betide it,
I'll frankly gi'e 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 cam awa,
And left the Session;
I saw they were resolved a'
On my oppression.
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
I said, 'Gude night,' and cam awa,
And left the Session;
I saw they were resolved a'
On my oppression.