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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!
The lads in black!
Rives't aff their back.
Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithnig, Its 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 some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain’d for an' mair;
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 bonnie spring,
fill I'd better gaen an' sair'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,
A bonnie hen, And, as the twilight was begun,
Thought nane wad ken.
The poor wee thing was little hurt;
The hale affair.
Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note,
I scorn'd to lie;
An' pay't the fee.
But, by my gun, o' guns
the wale, An' by my pouther an' An' by my hen, an' by her tail,
I vow an' swear! The game shall pay
o'er moor an' dale, For this, niest year.
As soon's the clockin-time is by,
For my gowd guinea:
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!
It pits me ay as mad's a hare;
When time's expedient:
Your most obedient.