with critical observations and biographical notices, by Robert Burns

104
Sic unco' hacks, and deadly whacks,
I never saw the like, man ;
Lost hands and heads cost them their deads.
That fell near Preston-dyke, man.
Tiiat afternoon, when a' w as done,
I gaed to see the fray, man ;
But had I wist what after past,
I'd better staid away, man :
On Seaton sands, wi' nimble hands,
They pick'd my pockets bare, man j
But I wish ne'er to drie sick fear.
For a' the sum and mair, man.
TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO.
The Chorus of this song is old, the rest of it is
mine.— Here, once for all, let me apologize for
many silly compositions of mine in this work. Many
beautiful airs wanted words; in the hurry of other
avocations, if I could string a parcel of rhymes to-
gether any thing near tolerable, I was fain to let
them pass. He must be an excellent poet indeed^
whose every performance is excellent.