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!”

     “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?”

     “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.

     “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.”

     But, sir, this pleas’d them warst of a’,
     An’ therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
     I said “Gude night,” an’ cam’ awa’,
     An’ left the Session;
     I saw they were resolved a’
     On my oppression.

The Brigs Of Ayr

     A Poem

          Inscribed to John Ballantine, Esq., Ayr.

     The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
     Learning his tuneful trade from ev’ry bough;
     The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
     Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush;
     The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,
     Or deep-ton’d plovers grey, wild-whistling o’er the hill;
     Shall he—­nurst in the peasant’s lowly shed,
     To hardy independence bravely bred,
     By early poverty to hardship steel’d. 
     And train’d to arms in stern Misfortune’s field—­
     Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
     The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes? 
     Or labour hard the panegyric close,
     With all the venal soul of dedicating prose? 
     No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
     And throws his hand uncouthly o’er the strings,
     He glows with all the spirit of the Bard,
     Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 
     Still, if some patron’s gen’rous care he trace,
     Skill’d in the secret, to bestow with grace;
     When Ballantine befriends his humble name,
     And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,
     With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,
     The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.

     ’Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap,
     And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap;
     Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith
     O’ coming Winter’s biting, frosty breath;
     The bees, rejoicing o’er their summer toils,
     Unnumber’d buds an’ flow’rs’ delicious spoils,