ROBERT BURNS' ANSWER.

WHAT ails ye now, ye loufie bh,
To thresh my back at fic a pitch?

Loth man! hae mercy wi'

your natch,

Your bodkin's bauld,

I did na fuffer ha'f fae much

Frae Daddie Auld.

What tho' at times when I grow crouse,
I gi'e their wames a random pouse,

Is that enough for you to fouse

Your fervant fae?

Gae mind

your

feam, ye prick the louse,

An' jag the flae,

King David o' poetic brief,

Wrought 'mang the laffes fic mifchief

As

My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants,

I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts

An unco flip yet,

An' fnugly fit amang the faunts,

At Davie's hip yet.

But fegs, the Seffion fays I maun
Gae fa' upo' anither plan,
Than garren laffes cowp the cran

Clean heels owre body,

And fairly thole their mither's ban,

Afore the howdy.

This leads me on, to tell for fport,
How I did wi' the Seffion fort-

Auld Clinkum at the Inner

port

Cry'd three times," Robin!"

"Come hither lad, an' anfwer for't,

"Ye're blam'd for jobbin'."

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on,
An' fnoov'd awa' before the Seffion-

I made

I made an open fair confeffion,

I fcorn'd to lie;

An' fyne Mefs John, beyond expreffion,

Fell foul o' me,

A furnicator lown he call'd me,

An' faid

my fau't frae blifs expell'd me;

I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,

'But what the matter,'

Quo' I, 'I fear unless ye geld me,

'I'll ne'er be better.'

"Geld you!" quo' he, " and whatfore no,
"If that your right hand, leg or toe,
"Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe,

"You fhou'd remember

"To cut it aff, an' whatfore no,

"Your deareft member,"

'Na, na,' quo' I, I'm no for that, 'Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't, 'I'd rather fuffer for my faut,

'A hearty flewit,

'As fair owre hip as ye can draw't!

Tho' I fhould rue it,

'Or gin ye like to end the bother,

'To please us a', I've just ae ither,

When

• When next wi'

yon lafs I forgather,

'Whate'er betide it,

'I'll frankly gi'e her't a' thegither,

'An' let her guide it.'

But, Sir, this pleas'd them warft of ava,
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
I faid 'Gude night,' and cam' awa',

And left the Seffion;

EPITAPH ON JOHN DOVE,

INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE.

HERE lies Johnny Pidgeon,
What was his religion,

Whae'er defires to ken,

To fome other warl
Maun follow the carl,

For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane.

Strong ale was ablution,
Small beer perfecution,

A dram was memento mori;
But a full flowing bowl,

1

Was the faving his foul,

And Port was celeftial glory.

SONG,