r do guid,
py&039;d her that pliskie!)
an&039; now she&039;s like to r red-wud
about her whisky
an&039; lord! if ance they pit her till&039;t,
her tartan pettiat she&039;ll kilt,
an&039;durk an&039; pistol at her belt,
she&039;ll tak the streets,
an&039; r her whittle to the hilt,
i&039; the first she ets!
for god sake, sirs! then speak her fair,
an&039; straik her cannie wi&039; the hair,
an&039; to the uckle hoe repair,
wi&039; stant speed,
an&039; strive, wi&039; a&039; your wit an&039; lear,
to t read
yon ill-tongu&039;d tkler, charlie fox,
ay taunt you wi&039; his jeers and ocks;
but gie hi&039;t het, y hearty cks!
e&039;en we the cadie!
an&039; send hi to his dicg box
an&039; sport&039; dy
tell you guid bid o&039; auld bonnock&039;s,
i&039;ll be his debt a ash bonnocks,
an&039; drk his health auld nance tnock&039;s
ne tis a-week,
if he sche, like tea an&039; nocks,
was kdly seek
uld he utation broach,
i&039;ll pled y aith guid braid stch,
he needna fear their foul reproach
nor erudition,
yon ixtie-axtie, eer hotch-potch,
the alition
auld stnd has a raucle tongue;
she&039;s jt a devil wi&039; a rung;
an&039; if she proise auld or young
to tak their part,
tho&039; by the neck she should be strung,
she&039;ll no desert
and now, ye chosen five-and-forty,
ay still you ither&039;s heart support ye;
then, tho&039;a ister grow dorty,
an&039; kick your pce,
ye&039;ll snap your grs, poor an&039; hearty,
before his face
god bless your honours, a&039; your days,
wi&039; wps o&039; kail and brats o&039; cise,
spite o&039; a&039; the thievish kaes,
that haunt st jaie&039;s!
your huble poet sgs an&039; prays,
while rab h
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