Classic Poem

Gude pity me, because I'm little,
For though I am an elf o' mettle,
And can, like ony wabster's shuttle,
Fink there or here;
Yet, scarce as lang 's a gude kail whittle,
I'm unco queer.

And now thou kens our waefu' case,
For Geordie's Furr we're in disgrace,
Because we've stang'd her through the place,
And hurt her spleuchan,
For which we darena show our face
Within the clachan.

And now we're dern'd in dens and hollows,
And hunted as was William Wallace,
Wi' Constables, those blackguard fallows,
And Sodgers baith;
But gude preserve us frae the gallows,
That shamefu' death!

Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie's sell;
Oh, shake him o'er the mouth o' hell,
There let him hing, and roar, and yell,
Wi' hideous din,
And if he offers to rebel,
Then heave him in.

When Death comes in wi' glimmering blink,
And tips auld druken Nanz the wink,
May Satan gie her a — a clink
Within his yet,
And fill her up wi' brimstone drink
Red, reeking, het.

There's Jockie and the hav'rel Jenny,
Some Devil seize them in a hurry,
And waff them in th' infernal wherry
Straught through the lake,
And gie their hides a noble curry,
Wi' oil of aik.

As for the Furr, poor worthless body,
She 's got mischief enough already,
Wi' stanged hips, and buttocks bloody,
She 's suffer'd sair;
But may she wintle in a woodie,
If she w — e mair.