3
For me, I cannot take in hand
Aright to criticise ye;
But as an answer ye demand,
I mean to try and please ye.
But if in this I chance to fail,
Though ye should be offended,
Since I’m begun to tell my tale,
So I’m a-mind to end it.
But poets are a nasty pack,
Aye snarling and sneering;
As soon’s a neighbour turns his back
His character they’re tearing.
So, Andrew, do not think it strange
To own me as a brother,
For aye ’till ance our natures change,
We’ll carp at ane another.
So to begin with your address,
Which intimates a quarrel;
As ye have said so, I confess
Ye seem a canker'd carle.
Your claws are sharp, as ye have said,
They prick and scratch us sair;
But here perhaps ye’ll find a blade
To gi’e your nails a pare.
I doubt not your intentions may;
Be good. But to proceed—
The youth ye met yon Sabbath day
Has been a youth indeed:
I guess frae a’ the tales he told
(Although I do na ken)
He’s been a youth of eight years old,
Or might be gaen i’ ten
