I've sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair; Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, I will expect, Yon sang ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care, And no neglect.
Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing; I've play'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 lately, 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 poacher-court The hale affair.
Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note, That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot; I scorn'd to lie; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee.
But by my gun, o' guns the wale, An' by my pouther an' my hail, An' by my hen, an' by her tail, I vow an' swear! The game shall pay, o'er muir an' dale, For this, niest year.
As soon's the clockin-time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry, Lord, I'se hae sporting by an' by For my gowd guinea, Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye For't in Virginia.
Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame, Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers!
It pits me aye as mad's a hare; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; But pennyworths again is fair, When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient.
A Poet's Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter^1
[Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.]
The First Instance That Entitled Him To The Venerable Appellation Of Father
Thou's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me, If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mamie, Shall ever daunton me or awe me, My bonie lady, Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me Tyta or daddie.
Tho' now they ca' me fornicator, An' tease my name in kintry clatter, The mair they talk, I'm kent the better, E'en let them clash; An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter To gie ane fash.
Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter, Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for, And tho' your comin' I hae fought for, Baith kirk and queir; Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for, That I shall swear!