But lest he learn the callan tricks— An’ faith I muckle doubt him— Like scrapin out auld Crummie’s nicks, An’ tellin lies about them; As lieve then, I’d have then Your clerkship he should sair, If sae be ye may be Not fitted otherwhere. Altho’ I say’t, he’s gleg enough, An’ ’bout a house that’s rude an’ rough, The boy might learn to swear; But then, wi’ you, he’ll be sae taught, An’ get sic fair example straught, I hae na ony fear. Ye’ll catechise him, every quirk, An’ shore him weel wi’ hell; An’ gar him follow to the kirk— Aye when ye gang yoursel. If ye then maun be then Frae hame this comin’ Friday, Then please, sir, to lea’e, sir, The orders wi’ your lady. My word of honour I hae gi’en, In Paisley John’s, that night at e’en, To meet the warld’s worm; To try to get the twa to gree, An’ name the airles an’ the fee, In legal mode an’ form: I ken he weel a snick can draw, When simple bodies let him: An’ if a Devil be at a’, In faith he’s sure to get him. To phrase you and praise you, Ye ken your Laureat scorns: The pray’r still you share still Of grateful Minstrel Burns. Versified Reply To An Invitation Sir, Yours this moment I unseal, And faith I’m gay and hearty! To tell the truth and shame the deil, I am as fou as Bartie: But Foorsday, sir, my promise leal, Expect me o’ your partie, If on a beastie I can speel, Or hurl in a cartie. Yours, Robert Burns. Mauchlin, Monday night, 10 o’clock. Song—Will Ye Go To The Indies, My Mary? Tune—“Will ye go to the Ewe-Bughts, Marion.” Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia’s shore? Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across th’ Atlantic roar? O sweet grows the lime and the orange, And the apple on the pine; But a’ the charms o’ the Indies Can never equal thine. I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true; And sae may the Heavens forget me, When I forget my vow! O plight me your faith, my Mary, And plight me your lily-white hand; O plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia’s strand. We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join; And curst be the cause that shall part us! The hour and the moment o’ time! Song—My Highland Lassie, O Tune—“The deuks dang o’er my daddy.” Nae gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fair, Shall ever be my muse’s care: Their titles a’ arc empty show; Gie me my Highland lassie, O. Chorus.—Within the glen sae bushy, O, Aboon the plain sae rashy, O, I set me down wi’ right guid will, To sing my Highland lassie, O.