Classic Poem

You may laugh at my bulls, (tho its much to my grief,
For no bull surpasses the bulls of the deaf .)
I thought my friend ask'd me the streight road to Leith,
Directly I show'd him the way to Dalkeith.
My master he sent me unto James's court
With letters: but I took them to the West port.
My brother he ask'd me my welfare to day,
I told him I ne'er drank no Whiskybae;
Nor no kind of liquor wou'd I drink a drop,
Not for all the goods that he had in his shop.
I sung Gramachree, and my Wife cry'd ancore ;
Instead of which I sung Lochaber no more.
I wish he wou'd steer north, the sam'd Doctor Wills ,
(Who from Kings and Queens proper sense now distils),
Perhaps he may cure me from blunders and bulls .
A Paddy condemn'd, once, but got a reprieve,
Who fain wou'd be rid of a great scolding wife;
He wrote her, “My dear, you will quickly go marry,
“O'Fegan my friend in the county of Carry;
“My love I bequeath you my clothes and my watch,
“For last day I died by the hands of Jack Ketch,
“Right far north in Ireland into Londonderry;
“So you need not write me for I'm in Purgatory.

An acquaintance of mine he complain'd to his wife,
That he ne'er had a dinner of sheep-heads in life;
That's nonesense (she said) you ne'er are without one,
Since I gave you horns to finish your snout on.

A lady whom Milton taught English to speak,
She wish'd he wou'd teach her both Latin and Greek;
Says Milton, that trouble I wish you to save,
For one tongue's enough for the daughters of Eve .

A Barrington shaver a farmer would dock
Of his money, but first of all urg'd him to smock;
But the farmer he struck him a smack on the eye,
And said I smock them who wou'd wish to smock me.

Poor prisemen , like poets , they blind out their eyes,
Exulting to think that to fame they'll arise,
But e'er they reach there, rancour, spite, and envy,
Will make them shrink aghast like M'Donald and I.
For I shew'd my prise-shoe to the great Glasgow asses ,
Who swore that I stole it to gain their caresses.