Answer To A Poetical Epistle Sent To The Author By A Tailor.

A poem by Robert Burns

What ails ye now, ye lousie b----h,
To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch,
Your bodkin's bauld,
I didna suffer ha'f sae much
Frae Daddie Auld.

What tho' at times when I grow crouse,
I gie their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse
Your servant sae?
Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,
An' jag-the-flae.

King David o' poetic brief,
Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief,
As fill'd his after life wi' grief,
An' bluidy rants,
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief
O' lang-syne saunts.

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an' druken rants,
I'll gie auld cloven Clootie's haunts
An unco' slip yet,
An' snugly sit among the saunts
At Davie's hip get.

But fegs, the Session says I maun
Gae fa' upo' anither plan,
Than garrin lasses cowp the cran
Clean heels owre body,
And sairly thole their mither's ban
Afore the howdy.

This leads me on, to tell for sport,
How I did wi' the Session sort,
Auld Clinkum at the inner port
Cried three times, "Robin!
Come hither, lad, an' answer for't,
Ye're blamed for jobbin'."

Wi' pinch I pat a Sunday's face on,
An' snoov'd away before the Session;
I made an open fair confession,
I scorn'd to lee;
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o' me.

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