epistle to hugh parker

in this strange land, this uncouth clime,

a land unknown to prose or rhyme;

where words ne'er cross't the muse's heckles,

nor limpit in poetic shackles:

a land that prose did never view it,

except when drunk he stacher't thro' it;

here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek,

hid in an atmosphere of reek,

i hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk,

i hear it—for in vain i leuk.

the red peat gleams, a fiery kernel,

enhusked by a fog infernal:

here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,

i sit and count my sins by chapters;

for life and spunk like ither christians,

i'm dwindled down to mere existence,

wi' nae converse but gallowa' bodies,

wi' nae kenn'd face but jenny geddes,

jenny, my pegasean pride!

dowie she saunters down nithside,

and aye a westlin leuk she throws,

while tears hap o'er her auld brown nose!