Page:The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, Vailima Edition, Volume 8, 1922.djvu/561

NEW POEMS Who could have hoped in addition

The pleasure of fing'ring the notes?

Yes, sir, I wrote the book; I own the fact;

It was perhaps, sir, an unworthy act.

Have you perused it, sir?—You have?—indeed!

Then between you and me there no debate is.

I did a silly act, but I was fee'd;

You did a sillier, and you did it gratis!

CLXXVI

EPISTLE TO CHARLES BAXTER

OO lyart leaves blaw ower the green,

Red are the bonny woods o' Dean,

An' here we're back in Embro, freen',

To pass the winter.

Whilk noo, wi' frosts afore, draws in,

An' snaws ahint her.

I've seen 's hae days to fricht us a',

The Pentlands poothered weel wi' snaw,

The ways half-smoored wi' liquid thaw,

An' half-congealin',

The snell an' scowtherin' norther blaw

Frae blae Brunteelan'.

I've seen 's been unco sweir to sally,

And at the door-cheeks daff an' dally, 547