Classic Poem

To you, Sir, this summons I've sent,
Pray whip till the pownie is fraething;
But if you demand what I want,
I honestly answer you, naething. —

Ne'er scorn a poor Poet like me,
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;
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 in his brows,
And what is a Coronet? naething. —

Some quarrel the presbyter gown,
Some quarrel Episcopal graithing,
But every good fellow will own
Their quarrel is all about — naething. —

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,
In hopes of a laureate wreathing,
And when he has wasted his time,
He 's kindly rewarded with naething. —

The thundering bully may rage,
And swagger and swear like a heathen;
But collar him fast, I'll engage
You'll find that his courage is naething. —

Last night with a feminine whig,
A Poet she could na 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 her — naething. —

The Priest anathemas may threat,
Predicament, Sir, that we're baith in;
But when honor's reveille is beat,
The holy artillery 's naething. —

And now I must mount on the wave,
My voyage perhaps there is death in;
But what of 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:
My service as lang as ye've ought,
And my friendship, by G — , when ye've naething. —