That done, they hue nae mair to ſay,
And ſcarcely ken him the neiſt day.
Poor fallow, now this mony a year,
Wi' ſome faint hope, and routh o' fear.
He has been wreſtling wi' his fate,
A drudge to Joukum and his mate;
While Briſtle ſaves his manly look,
Regardleſs baith of Roſe and Jouk;
Maintains right quietly 'yond the carns.
His honour, conſcience, wife and bairns;
Jouk and his rumlegary wife,
Drive on a drunken gaming life,
'Cauſe ſober they can get nae reſt,
For Nick and Duniwhistle's Ghaist,
Wha in the garrets often tooly,
And ſhore them with a bloody gully.
Thus I have ſung in hamlet rhyme,
A ſang that ſcorns the teeth of time.
Yet modeſtly I hide my name.
Admiring virtue mair than fame.
But tent ye wha deſpiſe inſtruction.
And gi'e my wark a wrang conſtruction,
Frae 'hind my curtain, mind I tell ye,
I'll ſhoot a ſatire thro' your belly:
But wha wi' havins jees his Bonnet,
And ſays. Thanks t'ye for your Sonnet,
Ye ſhanna want the praiſes due
To generoſity. Adieu.
FINIS.
GLASGOW,
PRINTED BY J.& M. ROBERTSON, No. 18. SALTMARKET,
1807.
