10 In idle rhyme. My Musie, tir'd wi' monie a sonnet An' rouse their holy thunder on it, I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, Can easy, wi' a single wordie, Louse10 Hell upon me. When lyart1 leaves bestrow the yird, Or, wavering like the bauckie-bird,2 Bedim cauld Boreas' blast; When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte,3 5 And infant frosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch1 drest; Ae night at e'en a merry core5 O' randie," gangrel' bodies, In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore,8 To drink their orra duddies;9 Wi' quaffing and laughing, They ranted1o an' they sang; Wi' jumping an' thumping, The vera girdle11 rang. 10 |