NEW POEMS
Who could have hoped in addition
The pleasure of fing'ring the notes?
Yes, sir, I wrote the book; I own the fact;
It was perhaps, sir, an unworthy act.
Have you perused it, sir?—You have?—indeed!
Then between you and me there no debate is.
I did a silly act, but I was fee'd;
You did a sillier, and you did it gratis!
CLXXVI
EPISTLE TO CHARLES BAXTER
NOO lyart leaves blaw ower the green,
Red are the bonny woods o' Dean,
An' here we're back in Embro, freen',
To pass the winter.
Whilk noo, wi' frosts afore, draws in,
An' snaws ahint her.
I've seen 's hae days to fricht us a',
The Pentlands poothered weel wi' snaw,
The ways half-smoored wi' liquid thaw,
An' half-congealin',
The snell an' scowtherin' norther blaw
Frae blae Brunteelan'.
I've seen 's been unco sweir to sally,
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