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Poem by John Lapraik

The Devils Answer to the Poets Address

Whaeer thou be, thou art na blate,
Wha mocks a Sprit o ancient date,
What best is in a confind state,
	An canna pass
Beyond the bounds an limits set
	By the first Cause.

You Poets, when you lift your pen,
A but yoursels to me you sen;
But, by this time, thee weel I ken;
	Thourt my acquaintance,
These twenty years I did thee learn
	To blether nonsense.

I own mans credit was na sma,
When he was new, an tight, an bra;
His powr was great to rule oer a
	Things that were made;
But soon his pride did let him fa,
	For a thats said,

Although I am a creature made,
No powr oer me old Adam had,
Then why shouldst thou wi names upbraid,
	An so ill use me,
Wha now am chaind by GODS strong hand,
	An cant abuse thee?

Thou cas me Hornie, Nick an Clootie,
An tells my cave is grim an sootie;
But stop, thoult, may-be, be my booty;
	Ill try my skill;
Ill gang as far as Fate will let me,
	An wi guid will.

Ill thee entice baith day an night;
O me thou need be in nae fright;
As Deil Ill neer come i thy sight;
	Thoult still embrace
My motions, which will yield delight,
	When done wi grace.

I know thou hast a wanton turn,
Wi passions stout as eer were born;
Thou likst the Maid wi hainches roun
	An waist genteel,
Wi een jet black, an hair nut brown,
	Thy heart shell steal;

Wha walks so neat, throws out her toes,
An minches as she past thee goes:
By such thourt hooked by the nose
	For a thy skill;
Thoult neer me blame, Im so abstruse,
	Thoult take thy will.

Thou tells thou ance was feard thysel;
Nae wonder! for tis guilt maks hell:
Thy conscience checkd, wi such a knell,
	Did mak thee shake,
For naething mair than sugh o quill
	O duck or drake.

Thou tells, by times I travel far,
An that Im neither blate nor scaur--
Mock not! let never guid friens jar
	Wiane anither,
Thourt my full mark, baith keel an tar,
	If not a brither.

Pray R-b, the Rhymer, just nae mair,
An o your titles take a care;
Or else ye ken how ye shall fare,
	For a your cracks,
An muckle-thought-o rhyming ware,
	An catching snacks.

An if your mocks I more shall hear,
I, by my cavern deep, do swear,
Upo you vengeance I will rear;
	Thou shalt lament
What thou hast publishd far an near,
	Me to affront.

With irony thou speakst wi glee,
Which shows thy disrespect to me;
Bids me repent, an then may-be
	Ill hae a stake:
I thank thee for thy wae-like ee,
	For fashions sake;

For o my hopes I canna boast;
For sure an certain I am lost:
The sure decree gainst me is past,
	An canna alter!
May- be thoult kent, unto thy cost,
	If I thee halter.

Thy chance is little mair than mine:
Thou mockst at evry thing divine:
Thy rhetoric has made thee shine,
	To please the wicked;
But ere thou round the corner twine,
	Ill hae thee nicked.

John Lapraik

John Lapraik's other poems:
  1. An Empty Pocket Easily Known
  2. Epistle to R****t B***s
  3. When I Upon Thy Bosom Lean
  4. Harvest
  5. Summer

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