Your spitefu joke?

An how ye gat him i’your thrall,

An brak him out o house an hal’,

While scabs an botches did him gall,

Wi bitter claw;

An lows’d his ill-tongu’d wicked scaul -

Was warst ava?

But a’ your doings to rehearse,

Your wily snares an fechtin fierce,

Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,

In prose or rhyme.

An now, Auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin,

A certain Bardie’s rantin, drinkin,

Some luckless hour will send him linkin

To your black Pit;

But, faith! he’ll turn a comerjinkin,

An cheat you yet.

But fare-you-weel, Auld Nickie-ben!

O, wad ye tak a thought an men’!

Ye affilins might – I dinna ken

Still hae a stake:

I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,

Ev’n for your sake!

⁷ Old Hangman

¹¹ spank

¹⁵ flaming, hollow

¹⁷ backward

¹⁸ bashful, afraid

¹⁹ Now

²² stripping

³⁰ unearthly

³² sober

³³ beyond, humming

³⁵ alders

³⁸ slanting

⁴⁰ pond

⁴¹ clump of rushes

⁴² moan

⁴³ fist

⁴⁵ harsh

⁵⁴ exhumed

⁵⁶ churn

⁵⁹ petted, twelve-pint, cow

⁶² husbands, cocksure

⁶³ working tool (penis)

⁶⁴ magic

⁶⁷ thaws, hoard

⁶⁸ surface

⁷¹ benighted

⁷³ bog, demons

⁸⁵ garden

⁹¹ scheming

⁹³ trick

⁹⁵ shake

⁹⁶ Almost

⁹⁷ flurry

⁹⁸ smoky, scorched wig

⁹⁹ smutty face

¹⁰¹ squinted, Job

¹⁰⁵ blotches

¹⁰⁷ scold

¹¹⁰ fighting

¹¹¹ the Archangel

¹¹³ beat, Lowland, Irish

¹¹⁶ roistering

¹¹⁷ hurrying

¹¹⁹ dodging

¹²³ perhaps, know

¹²⁵ sad

TO A LOUSE

On seeing one on a lady’s bonnet at church

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?

Your impudence protects you sairly;

I canna say but ye strunt rarely

Owre gauze and lace,

Tho faith! I fear ye dine but sparely

On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepan, blastet wonner,

Detested, shunn’d by saunt an sinner,

How daur ye set your fit upon her,

Sae fine a lady!

Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner

On some poor body.

Swith! In some beggar’s haffet squattle;

There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,

Wi ither kindred, jumping cattle;

In shoals and nations;

Whare horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle

Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there! ye’re out o sight,

Below the fatt’rels, snug an tight,

Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right,

Till ye’ve got on it,

The vera tapmost, tow’rin height

O Miss’s bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,

As plump an grey as onie grozet:

O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red smeddum,

I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t,

Wad dress your droddum!

I wad na been surpris’d to spy

You on an auld wife’s flainen toy;

Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,

On’s wylecoat;

But Miss’s fine Lunardi! fye!

How daur ye do’t?

O Jenny, dinna toss your head,

An set your beauties a’ abread!

Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie’s makin!

Thae winks an finger-ends, I dread,

Are notice takin!