Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received Fro
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reply to a trimmile received from a tailor what ails ye now, ye lousie bitch to thresh my back at sic a pitch? losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch, your bodkin's bauld; i didna suffer half sae much frae daddie auld. what tho' at times, when i grow crouse, i gie their wames a random pouse, is that enough for you to souse your servant sae? gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, an' jag-the-flea! king david, o' poetic brief, wrocht 'mang the lasses sic mischief as filled his after-life wi' grief, an' bluidy rants, a he's rank'd amang the chief o' lang-syne saunts. and maybe, tam, for a' my ts, my wicked rhymes, an' dru rants, i'll gie auld cloven's clootie's haunts an unco slip yet, an' snugly sit amang the saunts, at davie's hip yet! but, fegs! the session says i maun gae fa' upo' anither plan than garrin lasses coup the , heels ower body, an' sairly thole their mother's ban afore the howdy. this leads me on to tell for sport, how i did wi' the session sort; auld kum, at the inner port, cried three times, “robin! e hither lad, and answer for't, ye're