I hae been in for't ance or twice, But now a rumor's like to rise, A whaup's ' the nest. ADDRESS TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD. THOU's welcome, wean, mishanter fa' me, Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me Wee image of my, bonie Betty, As a' the priests had seen me get thee, What tho' they ca' me fornicator, An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint, Which fools may scoff at; An' if thou be what I wad hae thee, If thou be spar'd; Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee, Gude grant that thou may ay inherit "Twill please me mair to hear an' see't, TO A TAILOR, IN ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE WHICH HE HAD SENT THR AUTHOR. WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie b-h, I did na suffer half sae much Frae daddy Auld. What tho' at times, when I grow crouse, Gae, mind your seam, ye prick the louse, King David, o' poetic brief, Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief And, may be, Tam, for a' my cants, An' snugly sit amang the saunts, But fegs, the session says I maun Than garren lasses cowp the cran, This leads me on to tell, for sport Cried three times, "Robin! Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, A fornicator loun he call'd me, An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me; "Geld you!" quo' he, "and whatfore no, To cut it aff, and 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! "Or gin ye like to end the bother, I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither, An' let her guide it." But, sir, this pleas'd them warst ava, On my oppression. TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, WITH A PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR. REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart, A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; A poor, friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, The Queen, and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title's avow'd by my country. |