R T A T E R F（1 / 2）

reply to a trig epistle received fro a tailor

what ails ye now, ye loie bitch

to thresh y back at sic a pitch?

losh, an! hae rcy wi&039; your natch,

your bodk&039;s bauld;

i didna suffer half sae uch

frae daddie auld

what tho&039; at tis, when i grow croe,

i gie their was a rando poe,

is that enough for you to e

your servant sae?

gae d your sea, ye prick-the-loe,

an&039; jag-the-flea!

kg david, o&039; poetic brief,

wrocht &039;ang the sses sic ischief

as filled his after-life wi&039; grief,

an&039; bidy rants,

an&039; yet he&039;s rank&039;d aang the chief

o&039; ng-syne saunts

and aybe, ta, for a&039; y cants,

y wicked rhys, an&039; drucken rants,

i&039;ll gie auld cloven&039;s clootie&039;s haunts

an un slip yet,

an&039; snugly sit aang the saunts,

at davie&039;s hip yet!

but, fegs! the session says i aun

gae fa&039; upo&039; anither pn

than garr sses up the cran,

clean heels ower body,

an&039; sairly thole their other&039;s ban

afore the howdy

this leads on to tell for sport,

how i did wi&039; the session rt;

auld clku, at the ner port,

cried three tis, “rob!

e hither d, and answer for&039;t,

ye&039;re b&039;d for jobb!”

wi&039; pch i put a sunday&039;s face on,

an&039; snoov&039;d awa before the session:

i ade an open, fair nfession—

i srn&039;t to lee,

an&039; syne ss john, beyond expression,

fell foul o&039;

a fornicator-loun he call&039;d ,

an&039; said y faut frae bliss expell&039;d ;

i own&039;d the tale was true he tell&039;d ,

“but, what the atter?

(o&039; i) i fear unless ye ld ,

i&039;ll ne&039;er be better!”

“ld you! (o&039; he) an&039; what for no?

if that your right hand, leg or toe

should ever