What tho' at times when I grow crouse,
I gi'e their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse

Your servant sae?

Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,

An' jag-the-flae.

King David o' poetic brief,

Wrought 'mang the lasses such mischief

As fill'd his after life wi' grief

An' bloody rants,

An yet he's rank'd amang the chief

O' lang-syne saunts.

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants,
I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts

An unco slip yet,

An' snugly sit amang the saunts,

At Davie's hip yet.

But fegs, the Session says I maun
Gae fa' upo' anither plan,

Than garren lasses cowp the cran

Clean heels owre body,

And sairly thole their mither's ban
Afore the howdy.

This leads me on, to tell for sport,
How I did wi' the Session sort-
Auld Clinkum at the Inner port

Cry'd 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,
An' snoov'd awa' before the Session-
I made an open fair confession,

I scorn'd to lie ;

An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o' me.

A furnicator-loun he call'd me,

An' said my fau't frae bliss 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 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 rather suffer for my faut,

A hearty flewit,

As sair owre hip as ye can draw't,

Tho' I should rue it.

'Or gin ye like to end the bother, To please us a', I've just ae ither, When next wi' yon lass 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 warst ava,
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
I said, 'Gude night,' and cam awa,

And left the Session,;

I saw they were resolved a'

On my oppression.

EXTEMPORE LINES,

IN ANSWER TO A CARD FROM AN INTIMATE FRIEND OF BURNS, WISHING HIM TO SPEND AN HOUR AT A TAVERN.

THE King's most humble servant I,

Can scarcely spare a minute;

But I'll be wi' ye by an' bye;

Or else the Deil's be in it.

My bottle is my holy pool,

That heals the wounds o' care an' dool,

And pleasure is a wanton trout,
An' ye drink it, ye'll find him out.

LINES

WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN A LADY'S POCKET BOOK.

GRANT me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live To see the miscreants feel the pains they give ; Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, Till slave and despot be but things which were.

THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND.

CURS'D be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife!
Who has no will but by her high permission;
Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell;
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell.
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart:
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch.

EPITAPH ON A HENPECK'D COUNTRY

SQUIRE.

As father Adam first was fool'd,
A case that's still too common,
Here lies a man a woman rul'd,
The Devil rul'd the woman.

EPIGRAM ON SAID OCCASION.

O DEATH, hadst thou but spar'd his life
Whom we, this day, lament!
We freely wad exchang'd the wife,
And a' been weel content.

Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff,

The swap we yet will do't;
Take thou the carlin's carcase aff,
Thou'se get the saul o' boot.

ANOTHER.

ONE Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell,
When depriv'd of her husband she loved so well,
In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd her,
She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the

powder.

But Queen Netherplace, of a diff'rent complexion, When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction, Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender pretence, Not to shew her respect, but-to save the expense.

VERSES

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON.

WE came na here to view

your

In hopes to be mair wise,
But only, lest we gang to hell,

It may be nae surprise.

But when we tirl'd at your door,

warks

Your porter dought na hear us;

Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come,
Your billy Satan sair us!