Th A h E C A P（3 / 4）

r do guid,

py&039;d her that pliskie!)

an&039; now she&039;s like to r red-wud

about her whisky

an&039; lord! if ance they pit her till&039;t,

her tartan pettiat she&039;ll kilt,

an&039;durk an&039; pistol at her belt,

she&039;ll tak the streets,

an&039; r her whittle to the hilt,

i&039; the first she ets!

for god sake, sirs! then speak her fair,

an&039; straik her cannie wi&039; the hair,

an&039; to the uckle hoe repair,

wi&039; stant speed,

an&039; strive, wi&039; a&039; your wit an&039; lear,

to t read

yon ill-tongu&039;d tkler, charlie fox,

ay taunt you wi&039; his jeers and ocks;

but gie hi&039;t het, y hearty cks!

e&039;en we the cadie!

an&039; send hi to his dicg box

an&039; sport&039; dy

tell you guid bid o&039; auld bonnock&039;s,

i&039;ll be his debt a ash bonnocks,

an&039; drk his health auld nance tnock&039;s

ne tis a-week,

if he sche, like tea an&039; nocks,

was kdly seek

uld he utation broach,

i&039;ll pled y aith guid braid stch,

he needna fear their foul reproach

nor erudition,

yon ixtie-axtie, eer hotch-potch,

the alition

auld stnd has a raucle tongue;

she&039;s jt a devil wi&039; a rung;

an&039; if she proise auld or young

to tak their part,

tho&039; by the neck she should be strung,

she&039;ll no desert

and now, ye chosen five-and-forty,

ay still you ither&039;s heart support ye;

then, tho&039;a ister grow dorty,

an&039; kick your pce,

ye&039;ll snap your grs, poor an&039; hearty,

before his face

god bless your honours, a&039; your days,

wi&039; wps o&039; kail and brats o&039; cise,

spite o&039; a&039; the thievish kaes,

that haunt st jaie&039;s!

your huble poet sgs an&039; prays,

while rab h