Or if bare arses yet were tax'd;
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales,
Was threshing still at hizzies' tails;
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser:
A' this and mair I never heard of;
And, but for you, I might despair'd of.
So, gratefu', back your news I send you,
And pray a' gude things may attend you.
Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790.
Elegy On Willie Nicol's Mare
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
As ever trod on airn;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And past the mouth o' Cairn.
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
An' rode thro' thick and thin;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And wanting even the skin.
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And ance she bore a priest;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
For Solway fish a feast.
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
An' the priest he rode her sair;
And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was,
As priest-rid cattle are,--&c.
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