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24 That done, they hue nae mair to ſay, And ſcarcely ken him the neiſt day. Poor fallow, now this mony a year, Wi' ſome faint hope, and routh o' fear. He has been wreſtling wi' his fate, A drudge to Joukum and his mate; While Briſtle ſaves his manly look, Regardleſs baith of Roſe and Jouk; Maintains right quietly 'yond the carns. His honour, conſcience, wife and bairns; Jouk and his rumlegary wife, Drive on a drunken gaming life, 'Cauſe ſober they can get nae reſt, For and , Wha in the garrets often tooly, And ſhore them with a bloody gully. Thus I have ſung in hamlet rhyme, A ſang that ſcorns the teeth of time. Yet modeſtly I hide my name. Admiring virtue mair than fame. But tent ye wha deſpiſe inſtruction. And gi'e my wark a wrang conſtruction, Frae 'hind my curtain, mind I tell ye, I'll ſhoot a ſatire thro' your belly: But wha wi' havins jees his Bonnet, And ſays. Thanks t'ye for your Sonnet, Ye ſhanna want the praiſes due To generoſity. Adieu.

FINIS.

GLASGOW, PRINTED BY J.& M. ROBERTSON, No. 18. SALTMARKET, 1807. 