The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
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REPLY TO A TRIMMING EPISTLE RECEIVED FROM A TAILOR |
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| IV. |
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 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
96
REPLY TO A TRIMMING EPISTLE RECEIVED FROM A TAILOR
I
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.
II
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-flae!
III
King David o' poetic briefWrocht 'mang the lassies sic mischíef
As fill'd his after-life with grief
An' bloody rants;
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief
O' lang-syne saunts.
97
IV
And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,My wicked rhymes an' drucken rants,
I'll gie auld Cloven-Clootie's haunts
An unco slip yet,
An' snugly sit amang the saunts
At Davie's hip yet!
V
But, fegs! the Session says I maunGae fa' upo' anither plan
Than garrin lasses coup the cran,
Clean heels owre body,
An' sairly thole their mither's ban
Afore the howdy.
VI
This leads me on to tell for sportHow 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!’
VII
Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on,An' snoov'd awa' before the Session:
98
I scorn'd to lie—
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o' me.
VIII
A fornicator-loun he call'd me,An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me.
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,
‘But, what the matter?’
(Quo' I) ‘I fear unless ye geld me,
I'll ne'er be better!’
IX
‘Geld you!’ (quo' he) ‘an' what for no?If that your right hand, leg, or toe
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe,
You should remember
To cut it aff; an' what for no
Your dearest member?’
X
‘Na, na’ (quo' I), ‘I'm no for that,Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't;
I'd rather suffer for my faut
A hearty flewit,
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't,
Tho' I should rue it.
99
XI
‘Or, gin ye like to end the bother,To please us a'—I've just ae ither:
When next wi' yon lass I forgather,
Whate'er betide it,
I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither,
An' let her guide it.’
XII
But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst of a',An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
I said ‘Guid-night,’ an' cam awa,
An' left the Session:
I saw they were resolvèd a'
On my oppression.
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |