Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/56

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
12
THE POEMS OF BURNS.
An' durk an' pistol at her belt,She'll tak the streets,An' rin her whittle to the hilt,I' th' first she meets!
For God sake, Sirs! then speak her fair,An' straik her cannie wi' the hair,An' to the muckle house repair,Wi' instant speed,An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear,To get remead.
Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox,May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks;But gie him't het, my hearty cocks!E'en cowe the cadie!An' send him to his dicing-boxAn' sportin lady.
Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock'sI'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock'sNine times a-week,If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,Wad kindly seek.
Could he some commutation broach,I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,He need na fear their foul reproachNor erudition,Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch,The Coalition.
Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;She's just a devil wi' a rung;An' if she promise auld or youngTo tak their part,Tho' by the neck she should be strung,She'll no desert.
An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,May still your Mither's heart support ye;Then, though a Minister grow dorty,An' kick your place,Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,Before his face.
God bless your Honours a' your days,Wi' sowps o' kail an' brats o' claise,In spite o' a' the thievish kaesThat haunt St. Jamie's!Your humble Bardie sings an' praysWhile Rab his name is.
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.