您可以在百度里搜索“Poems and Songs of Robert Burns 艾草文学(www.321553.xyz)”查找最新章节！

　　Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received From 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 gie 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-flea!

　　King David, o' poetic brief,

　　Wrocht 'mang the lasses sic mischief

　　As filled his after-life wi' grief,

　　An' bluidy 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's Clootie'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 coup the cran,

　　Clean heels ower body,

　　An' sairly thole their mother'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, and 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't to lee,

　　An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,

　　Fell foul o' me.

　　A fornicator-loun he call'd me,

　　An' said my faut 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) an' what for no?

　　If that your right hand, leg or toe

　　Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe,

　　You should remember

　　To cut it aff—an' what for 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' yon lass I forgather,

　　Whate'er betide it,

　　I'll frankly gie her 't a' thegither,

　　An' let her guide it.”

　　But, sir, this pleas'd them warst of a',

　　An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,

　　I said “Gude night,” an' cam' awa',

　　An' left the Session;

　　I saw they were resolved a'

　　On my oppression. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns