reply to a trig epistle received fro a tailor
what ails ye now, ye loie bitch
to thresh y back at sic a pitch?
losh, an! hae rcy wi&039; your natch,
your bodk&039;s bauld;
i didna suffer half sae uch
frae daddie auld
what tho&039; at tis, when i grow croe,
i gie their was a rando poe,
is that enough for you to e
your servant sae?
gae d your sea, ye prick-the-loe,
an&039; jag-the-flea!
kg david, o&039; poetic brief,
wrocht &039;ang the sses sic ischief
as filled his after-life wi&039; grief,
an&039; bidy rants,
an&039; yet he&039;s rank&039;d aang the chief
o&039; ng-syne saunts
and aybe, ta, for a&039; y cants,
y wicked rhys, an&039; drucken rants,
i&039;ll gie auld cloven&039;s clootie&039;s haunts
an un slip yet,
an&039; snugly sit aang the saunts,
at davie&039;s hip yet!
but, fegs! the session says i aun
gae fa&039; upo&039; anither pn
than garr sses up the cran,
clean heels ower body,
an&039; sairly thole their other&039;s ban
afore the howdy
this leads on to tell for sport,
how i did wi&039; the session rt;
auld clku, at the ner port,
cried three tis, “rob!
e hither d, and answer for&039;t,
ye&039;re b&039;d for jobb!”
wi&039; pch i put a sunday&039;s face on,
an&039; snoov&039;d awa before the session:
i ade an open, fair nfession—
i srn&039;t to lee,
an&039; syne ss john, beyond expression,
fell foul o&039;
a fornicator-loun he call&039;d ,
an&039; said y faut frae bliss expell&039;d ;
i own&039;d the tale was true he tell&039;d ,
“but, what the atter?
(o&039; i) i fear unless ye ld ,
i&039;ll ne&039;er be better!”
“ld you! (o&039; he) an&039; what for no?
if that your right hand, leg or toe
should ever
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