Songs and poems by the Rev. John Skinner. With a sketch of his life, by H. G. Reid |
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ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE. |
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 | Songs and poems |  |
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ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE.
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[The following was written as an answer “in kind” to an Epistle from Portsoy, which appeared in the Aberdeen Journal, January 11, 1779.]
What can ye be that cou'd employ
Your pen in a sic a tirly-toy,
Frae hyne awa' as far's Portsoy
Aside the sea,
Whare I ken neither man nor boy,
Nor ane kens me?
Your pen in a sic a tirly-toy,
Frae hyne awa' as far's Portsoy
Aside the sea,
Whare I ken neither man nor boy,
Nor ane kens me?
Be wha ye will, ye're unco frush
At praising what's nae worth a rush,
Except it be to show how flush
Ye're at sic sport,
Yet tho' ye even gar me blush,
I thank you for't.
At praising what's nae worth a rush,
Except it be to show how flush
Ye're at sic sport,
Yet tho' ye even gar me blush,
I thank you for't.
For, troth, I ha'ena seen a letter
This mony a day I likit better;
Ye ken there's something in our nature
Likes to be reez'd;
Be't just or no, makes little matter,
An we be pleas'd.
This mony a day I likit better;
Ye ken there's something in our nature
Likes to be reez'd;
Be't just or no, makes little matter,
An we be pleas'd.
14
My sangs, it seems, hae made a din,
But still I hope it's nae a sin,
Sometimes to tirl a merry pin
As weel's we're able,
Whan fowks are in a laughin bin
For sang or fable,
But still I hope it's nae a sin,
Sometimes to tirl a merry pin
As weel's we're able,
Whan fowks are in a laughin bin
For sang or fable,
It's bat about sic smeerless things,
That my auld doited maiden sings,
She never fykes wi' flighty flings
Of heathen gods;
Nor seeks to please or pester kings
Wi' birth-day odes.
That my auld doited maiden sings,
She never fykes wi' flighty flings
Of heathen gods;
Nor seeks to please or pester kings
Wi' birth-day odes.
And yet may be some girnin gowks
May tak' the pett at harmless jokes,
And think sic simple silly strokes
O' poetrie,
Far unbecomin' sacred fowks
The like o' me.
May tak' the pett at harmless jokes,
And think sic simple silly strokes
O' poetrie,
Far unbecomin' sacred fowks
The like o' me.
What tho' some Sage o' holy quorum,
Should lightlie me for Tillygorum,
I'll never steer my sturdy for him,
Wha e'er he be;
As lang's I ken to keep decorum
As well as he.
Should lightlie me for Tillygorum,
I'll never steer my sturdy for him,
Wha e'er he be;
As lang's I ken to keep decorum
As well as he.
15
Indeed I wad on nae pretence
Wiss to tyne sight o' reverence;
Sae, if sic fowk be men o' sense,
I ask their pardon,—
But value not a fool's offence
Ae single fardin.
Wiss to tyne sight o' reverence;
Sae, if sic fowk be men o' sense,
I ask their pardon,—
But value not a fool's offence
Ae single fardin.
Your M.A.s and your L.L.D.s,
That get a vogue and mak' a fraize,
I dinna hadd them worth three straes,
Wi' a' their fame;
Nor do I envy ony praise
That's gi'en to them.
That get a vogue and mak' a fraize,
I dinna hadd them worth three straes,
Wi' a' their fame;
Nor do I envy ony praise
That's gi'en to them.
A frien' like you delights me sair,
An' hits my fancy till a hair,
Sae couthy and sae debonnair,
An' then sae plain;
It does nae need a birn o' lair
To write again.
An' hits my fancy till a hair,
Sae couthy and sae debonnair,
An' then sae plain;
It does nae need a birn o' lair
To write again.
Now, honest onkent, fare ye weel,
I guess you be some pawky chiel,
That's may be been at Allan's skuil
Some orra time,
And seems to understand the tweel
O' rustic rhyme.
I guess you be some pawky chiel,
That's may be been at Allan's skuil
Some orra time,
And seems to understand the tweel
O' rustic rhyme.
16
But print nae mair, I beg it o' you,
Lest Cha'mers say, he's plaguit wi' you,
You see I have nae thing to gie you
That's worth your while,
But only send my wisses to you,
In your ain style.
Lest Cha'mers say, he's plaguit wi' you,
You see I have nae thing to gie you
That's worth your while,
But only send my wisses to you,
In your ain style.
Lord keep you, man, frae sin and shame;
Frae skaith a' outing, and at hame;
An gie you ay, (blest be His name!)
What He thinks fit;
Tak' this frae me in kindly frame,
Instead o' wit.
Frae skaith a' outing, and at hame;
An gie you ay, (blest be His name!)
What He thinks fit;
Tak' this frae me in kindly frame,
Instead o' wit.
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