| |
| TO you, sir, this summons I’ve sent, | |
| Pray, whip till the pownie is freathing; | |
| But if you demand what I want, | |
| I honestly answer you—naething. | |
| |
| Ne’er scorn a poor Poet like me, | 5 |
| For idly just living and breathing, | |
| While people of every degree | |
| Are busy employed about—naething. | |
| |
| Poor Centum-per-centum may fast, | |
| And grumble his hurdies their claithing, | 10 |
| He’ll find, when the balance is cast, | |
| He’s gane to the devil for—naething. | |
| |
| The courtier cringes and bows, | |
| Ambition has likewise its plaything; | |
| A coronet beams on his brows; | 15 |
| And what is a coronet—naething. | |
| |
| Some quarrel the Presbyter gown, | |
| Some quarrel Episcopal graithing; | |
| But every good fellow will own | |
| Their quarrel is a’ about—naething. | 20 |
| |
| The lover may sparkle and glow, | |
| Approaching his bonie bit gay thing: | |
| But marriage will soon let him know | |
| He’s gotten—a buskit up naething. | |
| |
| The Poet may jingle and rhyme, | 25 |
| In hopes of a laureate wreathing, | |
| And when he has wasted his time, | |
| He’s kindly rewarded wi’—naething. | |
| |
| The thundering bully may rage, | |
| And swagger and swear like a heathen; | 30 |
| But collar him fast, I’ll engage, | |
| You’ll find that his courage is—naething. | |
| |
| Last night wi’ a feminine whig— | |
| A Poet she couldna put faith in; | |
| But soon we grew lovingly big, | 35 |
| I taught her, her terrors were naething. | |
| |
| Her whigship was wonderful pleased, | |
| But charmingly tickled wi’ ae thing, | |
| Her fingers I lovingly squeezed, | |
| And kissed her, and promised her—naething. | 40 |
| |
| The priest anathèmas may threat— | |
| Predicament, sir, that we’re baith in; | |
| But when honour’s reveillé is beat, | |
| The holy artillery’s naething. | |
| |
| And now I must mount on the wave— | 45 |
| My voyage perhaps there is death in; | |
| But what is a watery grave? | |
| The drowning a Poet is naething. | |
| |
| And now, as grim death’s in my thought, | |
| To you, sir, I make this bequeathing; | 50 |
| My service as long as ye’ve ought, | |
| And my friendship, by God, when ye’ve naething. | |
| |
