But ony help that I can gie, Tho't be but sma,' Your least command, I'se lat you see, -Sall gar me draw. An hour or twa, by hook or crook, And may be three, some orrow owk, That I can spare frae haly buik, (For that's my hobby,) I'll steal awa' to some by-neuk Band And crack wi' Robie. Wad ye but only crack again, Just what ye like in ony strain, I'll tak it kind; for, to be plain, I do expect it; And, mair than that, I'll no be fain To LINSHART, gin my hame ye spier, Whare I hae hefft near fifty year, >Twill come in course, ye need na fear; The pairt's weel kent; And postage, be it cheap or dear, Now after a', hae me exqueez'd For this fiel lilt; But, fiel or wise, gin ye be pleas'd, Ye'er welcome till❜t. Sae, canty Plowman, fare ye weel: Lord bless ye lang wi hae and hiel, And keep you ay the honest chiel That ye hae been; Syne lift you to a better biel When this is dane! P. S. This auld Scots muse I've courted lang, But now auld age taks dowie turns, I'll ay be fond o' Robie Burns, While I can sign Linshart, September 25th, 1789. JOHN SKINNER. EPISTLE FROM A TAYLOR TO ROBERT BURNS. WHAT waefu' news is this I hear, Frae greeting I can scarce forbear, Folks tell me, ye're gawn aff this year, Out o'er the sea, And lasses wham ye lo'e sae dear Will greet for thee. Weel wad I like war ye to stay, And maybe twa; May he protect us night an' day, That made us a'. Whar thou art gaun, keep mind frae me, Seek him to bear thee companie, And, Robin, whan ye come to die, Ye'll won aboon, An' live at peace an' unity Ayont the moon. Some tell me, Rab, ye dinna fear To get a wean, an' curse an' swear, I'm unco wae, my lad, to hear Cou'd I persuade ye to forbear, Fu' weel ye ken ye'll gang to hell, Waes me! ye're hurlin down the hill An' ye'll get leave to swear your fill There walth o' women ye'll get near, Come, gie's a kiss Nae kissing there-ye'll girn an' sneer, O Rab! lay by thy foolish tricks, Ye'll find hard living wi' Auld Nicks; I'm wae for thee. But what's this comes wi' sic a knell, While it does mak my conscience tell Me what is true, I'm but a ragget cowt mysel, Owre sib to you! We're owre like those wha think it fit, Wha shun the light, To let them see down to the pit, That lang dark night. But fareweel, Rab, I maun awa', And hurt us sair, Lad, ye wad never mend ava, Sae, Rab, tak care. THE ANSWER. What ails ye now, ye lousie b-li, To thresh my back at sic a pitch? Losh man! hae mercy wi' your natch, Your bodkin's bauld, I did na suffer ha'f sae much Frae Daddie Auld. What tho' at times when I grow crouse, Your servant sae? Gae mind your scam, ye prick the louse, An' jag the flae. |