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VI. THE JOLLY BEGGARS
Despise that shrImp, that wither'd Imp,
With a' his noise an' cap'rin, An' take a share with those that bear
The budget and the apron: And by that stowp, my faith and houpe,
And by that dear Kilbaigie, If e'er ye want, or meet with scant,
May I ne'er weet my craigie!
And by that stowp, &c.
The caird prevail'd—th' unblushing fair
In his embraces sunk, Partly wi' love, o'ercome sae sair,
An' partly she was drunk. Sir Violino, with an air
That show'd a man o' spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair,
An' made the bottle clunk
To their health that night.
But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft
That play'd a dame a shavie; The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft,
Behint the chicken cavie. Her lord, a wight of Homer's* craft,
Tho' lImpan wi' the spavie, He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft,
And shor'd them Dainty Davie O' boot that night.
He was a care-defying blade
As ever Bacchus listed! Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid,
His heart, she ever miss'd it. He had no wish but—to be glad,
Nor want but—when he thristed; He hated nought but—to be sad ;
An' thus the Muse suggested
His sang that night:—
* Homer is allowed to be the eldest ballad singer on record.—Burns.