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10

In idle rhyme.

My Musie, tir'd wi' monie a sonnet
On gown an' ban," an' douse black-bonnet,
Is grown right eerie' now she's done it,
Lest they should blame
her,

An' rouse their holy thunder on it,
And anathéms her.

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,
That I, a simple, countra bardie,
15 Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,
Wha, if they ken9 me,

Can easy, wi' a single wordie,

Louse10 Hell upon me.

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When lyart1 leaves bestrow the yird, Or, wavering like the bauckie-bird,2 Bedim cauld Boreas' blast; When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte,3 5 And infant frosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch1 drest; Ae night at e'en a merry core5 O' randie," gangrel' bodies, In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore,8 To drink their orra duddies;9 Wi' quaffing and laughing, They ranted1o an' they sang; Wi' jumping an' thumping, The vera girdle11 rang.

10

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