reply to a trimming epistle 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,

an' yet he's rank'd amang the chief

o' lang-syne saunts.

and maybe, tam, for a' my cants,

my wicked rhymes, an' drucken 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 cran,

clean 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 clinkum, at the inner port,

cried three times, “robin!

&nbspe hither lad, and answer for't,

ye're blam'd for jobbin!”