Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received From A Tailor
reply to a trimmile 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 sses sic mischief
as filled his after-life wi' grief,
an' bl
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