TO you, sir, this summons Ive sent,
Pray, whip till the pownie is freathing;
But if you demand what I want,
I honestly answer younaething.
Neer scorn a poor Poet like me,
For idly just living and breathing,
While people of every degree
Are busy employed aboutnaething.
Poor Centum-per-centum may fast,
And grumble his hurdies their claithing,
Hell find, when the balance is cast,
Hes gane to the devil fornaething.
The courtier cringes and bows,
Ambition has likewise its plaything;
A coronet beams on his brows;
And what is a coronetnaething.
Some quarrel the Presbyter gown,
Some quarrel Episcopal graithing;
But every good fellow will own
Their quarrel is a aboutnaething.
The lover may sparkle and glow,
Approaching his bonie bit gay thing:
But marriage will soon let him know
Hes gottena buskit up naething.
The Poet may jingle and rhyme,
In hopes of a laureate wreathing,
And when he has wasted his time,
Hes kindly rewarded winaething.
The thundering bully may rage,
And swagger and swear like a heathen;
But collar him fast, Ill engage,
Youll find that his courage isnaething.
Last night wi a feminine whig
A Poet she couldna put faith in;
But soon we grew lovingly big,
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 hernaething.
The priest anathèmas may threat
Predicament, sir, that were baith in;
But when honours reveillé is beat,
The holy artillerys naething.
And now I must mount on the wave
My voyage perhaps there is death in;
But what is a watery grave?
The drowning a Poet is naething.
And now, as grim deaths in my thought,
To you, sir, I make this bequeathing;
My service as long as yeve ought,
And my friendship, by God, when yeve naething.
