epistle to hugh parker
this stran nd, this unuth cli,
a nd unknown to prose or rhy;
where words ne&039;er cross&039;t the e&039;s heckles,
nor lipit poetic shackles:
a nd that prose did never view it,
except when drunk he stacher&039;t thro&039; it;
here, abh&039;d by the chi cheek,
hid an atosphere of reek,
i hear a wheel thru i&039; the neuk,
i hear it—for va i leuk
the red peat gleas, a fiery kernel,
enhked by a fog fernal:
here, for y wonted rhyg raptures,
i sit and unt y ss by chapters;
for life and spunk like ither christians,
i&039; ddled down to re existence,
wi&039; nae nverse but gallowa&039; bodies,
wi&039; nae kenn&039;d face but jenny ddes,
jenny, y pegasean pride!
dowie she saunters down nithside,
and aye a westl leuk she throws,
while tears hap o&039;er her auld brown nose!
was it for this, wi&039; cannie care,
thou bure the bard through any a shire?
at howes, or hillocks never stubled,
and te or early never grubled?—
o had i power like clation,
i&039;d heeze thee up a nsteltion,
to canter with the sagitarre,
or loup the ecliptic like a bar;
or turn the pole like any arrow;
or, when auld phoeb bids good-orrow,
down the zodiac ur the race,
and cast dirt on his godship&039;s face;
for i uld y y bread and kail
he&039;d ne&039;er cast saut upo&039; thy tail—
wi&039; a&039; this care and a&039; this grief,
and sa&039;, sa&039; prospect of relief,
and nought but peat reek i&039; y head,
how can i write what ye can read?—
tarbolton, enty-fourth o&039; june,
ye&039;ll fd a better tune;
but till we et and weet our whistle,
tak this exce for nae epistle
robert burns
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