Page:Answer to Andrew Moffat's small poem, on singing church-music.pdf/3

 For me, I cannot take in hand Aright to criticise ye; But as an answer ye demand, I mean to try and please ye. But if in this I chance to fail, Though ye should be offended, Since I’m begun to tell my tale, So I’m a-mind to end it.

But poets are a nasty pack, Aye snarling and sneering; As soon’s a neighbour turns his back His character they’re tearing. So, Andrew, do not think it strange To own me as a brother, For aye ’till ance our natures change, We’ll carp at ane another.

So to begin with your address, Which intimates a quarrel; As ye have said so, I confess Ye seem a canker'd carle. Your claws are sharp, as ye have said, They prick and scratch us sair; But here perhaps ye’ll find a blade To gi’e your nails a pare.

I doubt not your intentions may; Be good. But to proceed— The youth ye met yon Sabbath day Has been a youth indeed: I guess frae a’ the tales he told (Although I do na ken) He’s been a youth of eight years old, Or might be gaen i’ ten