Some auld, us’d hands had taen a note,
     That sic a hen had got a shot;
     I was suspected for the plot;
     I scorn’d to lie;
     So gat the whissle o’ my groat,
     An’ pay’t the fee.

     But by my gun, o’ guns the wale,
     An’ by my pouther an’ my hail,
     An’ by my hen, an’ by her tail,
     I vow an’ swear! 
     The game shall pay, o’er muir an’ dale,
     For this, niest year.

     As soon’s the clockin-time is by,
     An’ the wee pouts begun to cry,
     Lord, I’se hae sporting by an’ by
     For my gowd guinea,
     Tho’ I should herd the buckskin kye
     For’t in Virginia.

     Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! 
     ’Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
     But twa-three draps about the wame,
     Scarce thro’ the feathers;
     An’ baith a yellow George to claim,
     An’ thole their blethers!

     It pits me aye as mad’s a hare;
     So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
     But pennyworths again is fair,
     When time’s expedient: 
     Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,
     Your most obedient.

A Poet’s Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter^1

     [Footnote 1:  Burns never published this poem.]

     The First Instance That Entitled Him To
     The Venerable Appellation Of Father

     Thou’s welcome, wean; mishanter fa’ me,
     If thoughts o’ thee, or yet thy mamie,
     Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
     My bonie lady,
     Or if I blush when thou shalt ca’ me
     Tyta or daddie.

     Tho’ now they ca’ me fornicator,
     An’ tease my name in kintry clatter,
     The mair they talk, I’m kent the better,
     E’en let them clash;
     An auld wife’s tongue’s a feckless matter
     To gie ane fash.

     Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter,
     Tho’ ye come here a wee unsought for,
     And tho’ your comin’ I hae fought for,
     Baith kirk and queir;
     Yet, by my faith, ye’re no unwrought for,
     That I shall swear!

     Wee image o’ my bonie Betty,
     As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,
     As dear, and near my heart I set thee
     Wi’ as gude will
     As a’ the priests had seen me get thee
     That’s out o’ hell.

     Sweet fruit o’ mony a merry dint,
     My funny toil is now a’ tint,
     Sin’ thou came to the warl’ asklent,
     Which fools may scoff at;
     In my last plack thy part’s be in’t
     The better ha’f o’t.

     Tho’ I should be the waur bestead,
     Thou’s be as braw and bienly clad,
     And thy young years as nicely bred
     Wi’ education,
     As ony brat o’ wedlock’s bed,
     In a’ thy station.

     Lord grant that thou may aye inherit
     Thy mither’s person, grace, an’ merit,
     An’ thy poor, worthless daddy’s spirit,
     Without his failins,
     ’Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,
     Than stockit mailens.