little, with the help of that partiality with which you are so good as to favour the performances of, Dear Sir, Your very humble Servant, Wednesday Morning. ROBERT BURNS. ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE, WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR AT A TIME WHEN HE My curse on your envenom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang, Wi' gnawing vengeance : Like racking engines. A' down my beard the slavers trickle, I curse an' ban, an' wish a heckle Were i' their doup. When fevers burn, or agues freeze us, Wi' pitying moan; But thou-the hell o' a' diseases, They mock our groan. O' a' the num'rous human dools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree! Whare'er that place be priests ca' hell, Thou, Tooth-Ache, surely bear'st the bell ! thou grim mischief-makin chiel, That gars the notes o' discord squeel, Till human-kind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe thick, Gie a' the faes o' Scotland weal A TOWMOND'S TOOTH-ACHE. LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCH, ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. O GOUDIE! terror o' the Wigs, Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs, Girnin' looks back, Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues Wad seize you quick. Poor gapin glowrin Superstition, Fly, bring Black-Jock, her state Physician, To see her w-ter; Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion She'll ne'er get better. Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, But now she's got an unco ripple, Nigh unto death: See how she fetches at the thrapple, An' gasps for breath. Enthusiasm's past redemption, Gaen in a galloping consumption, Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption, Will ever mend her; Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption Death soon will end her. 'Tis you and Taylor* are the chief Wha are to blame for this mischief; But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave, A toom tar barrel An' twa red peats wad send relief, An' end the quarrel. ANSWER TO A TRIMMING LETTER FROM A TAYLOR. WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie b—h, To thresh my back at sic a pitch? 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 seam, gae prick the louse, An' jag the flea. King David, o' poetic brief, Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief, As fill'd his after-life with grief An' bloody rants, An yet he's rank'd amang the chief O' lang syne saunta • Dr. Taylor of Norwich. L And may be, Tam, for a' my cants, An unco slip yet, An' snugly sit amang the saunts At Davie's hip yet. But fegs the Session says I maun Clean heels owre body, And fairly thole their mither's ban Afore the howdy. This leads me on to tell for sport, Cried three times Robin! Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, Ye're blam'd for jobbin.' Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, I scorn to lie ; An syne Mess John, beyond expression, Fell foul o' me. A fornicator lown, he call'd me, An' said my faut frae bliss expeil'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 shou'd remember To cut it aff, an' whatfore no, Your dearest member.' 'Na, na, quo' I, I'm no for that Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca`t, I'd rathe suffer for my faut, A hearty flewit, Tho' I should rue it. 'Or gin ye like to end the bother, Whate'er betide it, I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither, An' let her guide it.' But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava, And left the Session; I saw they were resolved a' On my oppression. ADDRESS TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD. THOU's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me, hall ever danton me, or awe me, My sweet wee lady; Tit-ta or daddy. Wee image of my bonny Betty, Wi' as gude will What tho' they ca' me fornicator, E'en let them clash ; An auld wife's tongue's a eckless matter To gie ane fash. |