Auld Truth hersel’ might swear yer’e fair,
     And Honour safely back her;
     And Modesty assume your air,
     And ne’er a ane mistak her: 
     And sic twa love-inspiring een
     Might fire even holy palmers;
     Nae wonder then they’ve fatal been
     To honest Willie Chalmers.

     I doubt na fortune may you shore
     Some mim-mou’d pouther’d priestie,
     Fu’ lifted up wi’ Hebrew lore,
     And band upon his breastie: 
     But oh! what signifies to you
     His lexicons and grammars;
     The feeling heart’s the royal blue,
     And that’s wi’ Willie Chalmers.

     Some gapin’, glowrin’ countra laird
     May warsle for your favour;
     May claw his lug, and straik his beard,
     And hoast up some palaver: 
     My bonie maid, before ye wed
     Sic clumsy-witted hammers,
     Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp
     Awa wi’ Willie Chalmers.

     Forgive the Bard! my fond regard
     For ane that shares my bosom,
     Inspires my Muse to gie ’m his dues
     For deil a hair I roose him. 
     May powers aboon unite you soon,
     And fructify your amours,—­
     And every year come in mair dear
     To you and Willie Chalmers.

Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received From A Tailor

     What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch
     To thresh my back at sic a pitch? 
     Losh, man! hae mercy wi’ your natch,
     Your bodkin’s bauld;
     I didna suffer half sae much
     Frae Daddie Auld.

     What tho’ at times, when I grow crouse,
     I gie 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-flea!

     King David, o’ poetic brief,
     Wrocht ’mang the lasses sic mischief
     As filled his after-life wi’ grief,
     An’ bluidy 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’s Clootie’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 garrin lasses coup the cran,
     Clean heels ower body,
     An’ sairly thole their mother’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,
     Cried three times, “Robin! 
     Come hither lad, and 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’t to lee,
     An’ syne Mess John, beyond expression,
     Fell foul o’ me.