Poem by Robert Burns

A Poetical Epistle to 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 gi’e 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-flae!

King David o’ poetic brief,
Wrought ‘mang the lasses such mischief
As fill’d his after life wi’ grief
    An’ bloody rants,
An’ yet he’s rank’d amang the chief
    O’ lang-syne saunts.

And maybe, Tam, for a’ my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an’ drucken rants,
I’ll gie auld cloven Clooty’s haunts
    An unco slip yet,
An’ snugly sit amang the saunts,
    At Davie’s hip yet.

But fegs! the Session says I maun
Gae fa’ upo’ anither plan,
Than garrin’ lasses cowp the cran
    Clean heels owre body,
And sairly thole their mither’s ban
    Afore the howdy.

This leads me on to tell for sport
How I did wi’ the Session sort-
Auld Clinkum at the Inner port
    Cried three times, ‘Robin!
Come hither, lad, an’ answer for’t,-
    Ye’re blam’d for jobbin’.’

Wi’ pinch I put a Sunday’s face on,
An’ snoov’d awa’ before the Session;
I made an open fair confession,
    I scorn’d to lie;
An’ syne Mess John, beyond expression,
    Fell foul o’ me.

A furnicator-loun he caIl’d me,
An’ said my fau’t frae bliss expell’d me;
I own’d the tale was true he tell’d me,
    ‘But what the matter?’
Quo’ I ‘I fear unless ye geld me,
    I’ll ne’er be better.’

‘Geld you!’ quo’ he, ‘and whatfor no?
If that your right hand, leg or toe,
Should ever prove your sp’ritual foe,
    You shou’d remember
To cut it aff, an’ whatfor no
    Your dearest member?’

‘Na, na,’ quo’ I, ‘I’m no for that,
Gelding’s nae better than ‘tis ca’t,
I’d rather suffer for my faut
    A hearty flewit,
As sair owre hip as ye can draw ‘t,
    Tho’ I should rue it.

‘Or gin ye like to end the bother,
To please us a’, I’ve just ae ither,
When next wi’ you lass I forgather,
    Whate’er betide it,
I’ll frankly gi’e her ‘t a’ thegither,
    An’ let her guide it.’

But, Sir, this pleas’d them waret ava,
An’ therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
I said ‘Gude night,’ and cam awa,
    And left the Session;
I saw they were resolved a’
    On my oppression.

1. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
2. Blythe Was She
3. Farewell to Ballochmyle
4. Stay My Charmer
5. Young Jamie, Pride of A’ the Plain

Print

3246 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version