I doubt na, lass, that weel ken'd name May cost a pair o' blushes; I am nae stranger to your fame, Nor his warm urged wishes. Your bonie face sae mild and sweet, His honest heart enamours, And faith ye'll no be lost a whit, Tho' wair'd on Willie Chalmers.
Auld Truth hersel' might swear yer'e fair, And Honour safely back her; And Modesty assume your air, And ne'er a ane mistak her: And sic twa love-inspiring een Might fire even holy palmers; Nae wonder then they've fatal been To honest Willie Chalmers.
I doubt na fortune may you shore Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie, Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, And band upon his breastie: But oh! what signifies to you His lexicons and grammars; The feeling heart's the royal blue, And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.
Some gapin', glowrin' countra laird May warsle for your favour; May claw his lug, and straik his beard, And hoast up some palaver: My bonie maid, before ye wed Sic clumsy-witted hammers, Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp Awa wi' Willie Chalmers.
Forgive the Bard! my fond regard For ane that shares my bosom, Inspires my Muse to gie 'm his dues For deil a hair I roose him. May powers aboon unite you soon, And fructify your amours,-- And every year come in mair dear To you and Willie Chalmers.
Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received From A Tailor
What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch To thresh my back at sic a pitch? Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch, Your bodkin's bauld; I didna suffer half 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-flea!
King David, o' poetic brief, Wrocht 'mang the lasses sic mischief As filled 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' drucken rants, I'll gie auld cloven's Clootie's haunts An unco slip yet, An' snugly sit amang the saunts, At Davie's hip yet!
But, fegs! the session says I maun Gae fa' upo' anither plan Than garrin lasses coup the cran, Clean heels ower body, An' sairly thole their mother'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, and answer for't, Ye're blam'd for jobbin!”