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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
Gin ye neglect it.

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,
I'll pay content.

Now after a', hae me exqueez'd
For wishing nae to be refeez'd,
I dinna covet to be reez'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,
And spar'd nae pains to win her;
Dowf tho' I be in rustic sang,
I'm no a late beginner.

But now auld age taks dowie turns,
Yet troth, as I'm a sinner,

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,
But, Robin, since ye will away,
I hae a word yet mair to say,

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,

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I'm unco wae, my lad, to hear
O' sic a trade,

Cou'd I persuade ye to forbear,
I wad be glad.

Fu' weel ye ken ye'll gang to hell,
Gin ye persist in doin ill—

Waes me! ye're hurlin down the hill
Withouten dread,

An' ye'll get leave to swear your fill
After ye're dead.

There walth o' women ye'll get near,
But gettin weans ye will forbear,
Ye'll never say, my bonnie dear

Come, gie's a kiss

Nae kissing there-ye'll girn an' sneer,
An' ither hiss

O Rab! lay by thy foolish tricks,
An' steer nae mair the female sex,
Or some day ye'll come through the pricks,
An' that ye'll see ;

Ye'll find hard living wi' Auld Nicks;

I'm wae for thee.

But what's this comes wi' sic a knell,
Amaist as loud as ony bell,

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,
To stuff their noddles fu' o' wit,
An' yet content in darkness sit,

Wha shun the light,

To let them see down to the pit,

That lang dark night.

But fareweel, Rab, I maun awa',
May he that made us keep us a',
For that wad be a dreadfu' fa'

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,
I gie their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse

Your servant sae?

Gae mind your scam, ye prick the louse,

An' jag the flae.

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