rt hae i to sing!
my muse dow scarcely spread her wing;
i've py'd mysel a bonie spring,
an' danc'd my fill!
i'd better gaen an' sair't the king,
at bunkjer's hill.
'twas ae night tely, 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 straikit it a wee for sport,
ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't;
but, deil-ma-care!
somebody tells the
Epistle To John Rankine(3/5)