Epistle T Dr. Blaklk
epistle to dr. blacklock
ellisland, 21st oct., 1789.
wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
and are ye hale, and weel and tie?
i ken'd it still, your wee bit jauntie
wad brio:
lord send you aye as weel's i want ye!
and then ye'll do.
the ill-thief blaw the heron south!
and never drink be near his drouth!
he tauld myself by word o' mouth,
he'd tak my letter;
i lippen'd to the chiel in trouth,
and bade ter.
but aiblins, ho master heron
had, at the time, some dainty fair one
to ware this theologic care on,
and holy study;
and tired o' sauls to waste his lear on,
e'en tried the body.
but what d'ye think, my trusty fere,
i'm turned a gauger—peace be here!
parnassian queans, i fear, i fear,
ye'll now disdain me!
and then my fifty pounds a year
will little gain me.
ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies,
wha, by castalia's wimplin streamies,
lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
ye ken, ye ken,
that strang y supreme is
'mang sons o' men.
i hae a wife and twa wee laddies;
they maun hae brose and brats o' duddies;
ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is—
i need na vaunt
but i'll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies,
before they want.
lord help me thro' this warld o' care!
i'm weary sick o't late and air!
not but i hae a richer share
than mony ithers;
but why should ae maer fare,
and a' men brithers?
e, firm resolve, take thou the van,
thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man!
a us mind, fai ne'er wan
a lady fair:
wha does the utmost that he ,
will whiles do mair.
but to clude my silly rhyme
(i'm st o' verse and st o' time),
to make a happy fireside clime
to weans and wife,
that's the true pathos and sublime
of human life.
my pliments to sister beckie,
ahe same to ho lucky;
i wat she is a daintie chuckie,
as e'er tread clay;
and gratefully, my gude auld cockie,
i'm yours for aye.
robert burns.
ellisland, 21st oct., 1789.
wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
and are ye hale, and weel and tie?
i ken'd it still, your wee bit jauntie
wad brio:
lord send you aye as weel's i want ye!
and then ye'll do.
the ill-thief blaw the heron south!
and never drink be near his drouth!
he tauld myself by word o' mouth,
he'd tak my letter;
i lippen'd to the chiel in trouth,
and bade ter.
but aiblins, ho master heron
had, at the time, some dainty fair one
to ware this theologic care on,
and holy study;
and tired o' sauls to waste his lear on,
e'en tried the body.
but what d'ye think, my trusty fere,
i'm turned a gauger—peace be here!
parnassian queans, i fear, i fear,
ye'll now disdain me!
and then my fifty pounds a year
will little gain me.
ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies,
wha, by castalia's wimplin streamies,
lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
ye ken, ye ken,
that strang y supreme is
'mang sons o' men.
i hae a wife and twa wee laddies;
they maun hae brose and brats o' duddies;
ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is—
i need na vaunt
but i'll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies,
before they want.
lord help me thro' this warld o' care!
i'm weary sick o't late and air!
not but i hae a richer share
than mony ithers;
but why should ae maer fare,
and a' men brithers?
e, firm resolve, take thou the van,
thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man!
a us mind, fai ne'er wan
a lady fair:
wha does the utmost that he ,
will whiles do mair.
but to clude my silly rhyme
(i'm st o' verse and st o' time),
to make a happy fireside clime
to weans and wife,
that's the true pathos and sublime
of human life.
my pliments to sister beckie,
ahe same to ho lucky;
i wat she is a daintie chuckie,
as e'er tread clay;
and gratefully, my gude auld cockie,
i'm yours for aye.
robert burns.