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epistle to hugh parker

this stran nd, this unuth cli,

a nd unknown to prose or rhy;

where words ne&039;er cross&039;t the e&039;s heckles,

nor lipit poetic shackles:

a nd that prose did never view it,

except when drunk he stacher&039;t thro&039; it;

here, abh&039;d by the chi cheek,

hid an atosphere of reek,

i hear a wheel thru i&039; the neuk,

i hear it—for va i leuk

the red peat gleas, a fiery kernel,

enhked by a fog fernal:

here, for y wonted rhyg raptures,

i sit and unt y ss by chapters;

for life and spunk like ither christians,

i&039; ddled down to re existence,

wi&039; nae nverse but gallowa&039; bodies,

wi&039; nae kenn&039;d face but jenny ddes,

jenny, y pegasean pride!

dowie she saunters down nithside,

and aye a westl leuk she throws,

while tears hap o&039;er her auld brown nose!

was it for this, wi&039; cannie care,

thou bure the bard through any a shire?

at howes, or hillocks never stubled,

and te or early never grubled?—

o had i power like clation,

i&039;d heeze thee up a nsteltion,

to canter with the sagitarre,

or loup the ecliptic like a bar;

or turn the pole like any arrow;

or, when auld phoeb bids good-orrow,

down the zodiac ur the race,

and cast dirt on his godship&039;s face;

for i uld y y bread and kail

he&039;d ne&039;er cast saut upo&039; thy tail—

wi&039; a&039; this care and a&039; this grief,

and sa&039;, sa&039; prospect of relief,

and nought but peat reek i&039; y head,

how can i write what ye can read?—

tarbolton, enty-fourth o&039; june,

ye&039;ll fd a better tune;

but till we et and weet our whistle,

tak this exce for nae epistle

robert burns