 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
TO SYMON GRAY
I
Symon Gray, you're dull to-day!Dullness with redoubled sway
Has seized the wits of Symon Gray.
II
Dear Symon Gray, the other dayWhen you sent me some rhyme,
I could not then just ascertain
Its worth for want of time;
III
But now to-day, good Mr. Gray,I've read it o'er and o'er:
Tried all my skill, but find I'm still
Just where I was before.
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IV
We auld wives' minions gie our opinions,Solicited or no;
Then of its fauts my honest thoughts
I'll give—and here they go:
V
Such damn'd bombást no age that's pastCan show, nor time to come;
So, Symon dear, your song I'll tear,
And with it wipe my bum.
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |