EPISTLE TO J. R******, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. Robert Burns Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T91548 Burns, Robert, 1759-1796. POEMS, CHIEFLY IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT, BY ROBERT BURNS. Kilmarnock printed by John Wilson, M,DCC,LXXXVI. 1786 pp. 218-222. 240p.; 8⁰.

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EPISTLE TO J. R****** , ENCLOSING SOME POEMS . O Rough , rude , ready-witted R****** , The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin ! There's monie godly folks are thinkin , Your dreams A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the world . an' tricks Will send you , Korah-like , a sinkin , Straught to auld Nick's . Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants , And in your wicked , druken rants , Ye mak a devil o' the Saunts , An' fill them fou ; And then their failings , flaws an' wants , Are a' seen thro' . Hypocrisy , in mercy spare it ! That holy robe , O dinna tear it ! Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it , The lads in black ; But your curst wit , when it comes near it , Rives't aff their back . Think , wicked Sinner , wha ye're skaithing : It's just the Blue-gown badge an' claithing , O' Saunts ; tak that , ye lea'e them naething , To ken them by , Frae ony unregenerate Heathen , Like you or I . I've sent you here , some rhymin ware , A' that I bargain'd for , an' mair ; Sae when ye hae an hour to spare , I will expect , Yon Sang A Song he had promised the Author . ye'll sen't , wi' cannie care , And no neglect . Tho' faith , sma' heart hae I to sing ! My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing : I've play'd mysel a bonie spring , An danc'd my fill ! I'd better gaen an' sair't the king , At Bunker's hill . 'Twas ae night lately , in my fun , I gaed a rovin wi' the gun , An' brought a Paitrick to the grun' , A bonie hen , And , as the twilight was begun , Thought nane wad ken . The poor , wee thing was little hurt ; I straiket it a wee for sport , Ne'er thinkan they wad fash me for't ; But , Deil-ma-care ! Somebody tells the Poacher-Court , The hale affair . 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 , owre moor an' dail , For this , niest year . As soon's the clockin-time is by , An' the wee powts begun to cry , L — d , I'se hae sportin 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 ay 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 .