Classic Poem

A THOUSAND curses on the fellows
That assail us at this season;
And no better may their hounds fare,
Waste effort wear out hounds and these men.

And no better may their hounds fare,
Waste effort wear their sort uncivil,
At each hind their shot mis-spending,
Till descending to the level.

At each hind their shot mis-spending
Till descending to the chalmers,
A foiled hunt on every mountain,
No spark fountain in their hammers.

Missing game on every mountain,
No spark fountain at their bogheads,
Headlong in the wildings falling,
And deep sprawling on the bogheads.

Headlong in the wildings falling,
And in mossland sprawling, sinking,
The breeched folk I care for little,
Though mickle in their purse were clinking.

Small my love for folk o' the breeches,
Though they'd riches in their purses;
Little like I folks long coated,
Though they're bloated with resources.

Little like I folks long coated,
Though they're bloated with the warl';
Would that my love and mysel' were
In the dell where sings the merle.

Sad that not she and mysel' were
In the dell where thrushes parley,
Where i' the wood were heard the ring-dove
Sing love at thick-sowing o' barley.

Where i' the wood were heard the ring-dove
Sing love at the barley heyday,
Choristers thick branches move in
At the gloaming, bonnie Mayday.

Choristers on each branch moving
At the gloaming, bonnie Mayday,
I would spread my plaid about thee,
And so flout we every grey day.

I would row thee in my plaidie,
So we're every gloom refuting,
My arm round thy fair neck, lady,
My mouth at thy mouth, saluting.

My arm round thy white neck charming,
My mouth thine with kisses pressing,
Not long were the night till morning,
With no sleep in Mor's caressing.

Soon would night till morning go by
In Mor's fondling with no slumber,
Britain's king I scarce would envy,
His tho' Hanover too he number.

Britain's king I'd envy no more,
His though England and Hanover,
Scotland and the Irish nation—
I prefer thy conversation.