I winna blaw about mysel;

As ill I like my fauts to tell;
But friends, and folk that wish me well,

APRIL 21st, 1785

Tho' I maun own, as monie still

As far abuse me.

To own I'm debtor

To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,

For his kind letter.

Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro' amang the naigs

Their ten-hours' bite, My awkart muse sair pleads and begs I would na write.

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy, This month an' mair, That trouth my head is grown right dizzie An' something sair."

Her dowff excuses pat me mad; "Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jad! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, This vera night;

So dinna ye affront your trade,

But rhyme it right.

"Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts, In terms so friendly Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, An' thank him kindly

Sae I gat paper in a blink,
An' down gaed stumpie in the ink:
Quoth I, "Before I sleep a wink,

I vow I'll close it; An' if ye winna mak it clink,

By Jove I'll prose it!"