23
That done, they bae nae mair to say.
And scarcely ken him the next day.
Poor fellow now this mony a year,
Wi' some faint hops and routh o fear,
He has been wrestin wi' hie fate.
A drudge to Jokcum and his mate ,
While Briste saves his manly look,
Regardless baith o Rose and Jouk :
Maintains right quietly 'yont the cairns.
His honor, conscience, wife and bairns;
Jouk and his rumelgary wife.
Drive on a drunken gaming life.
Cause seber they can get nae rest.
For Nick, and Duniwhistle's Ghaist,
Wha in the garrets often toolk,
And shore them with a bloody gully.
Thus I have sung in hamlet rhyme,
A sang that scorns the teeth o‘ time,
Yet modestly I hide my name,
Admiring virtue mair than fame:
But tent ye wha despise instruction,
And gie my wark a wrang construction,
Frae 'hiud the curtain mind I tell ye,
I‘ll shoot a satire through your belly,
But wha wi' havins jees his bonnet,
And says, Thanks t'ye for your Sonnet,
Ye shanna want the praises due,
To generosity. Adieu,
FINIS.
