Classic Poem

August — 1785
O Gowdie, terror o' the whigs,
Dread o' black coats and reverend wigs!
Sour Bigotry on his last legs
Girns and looks back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues
May sieze you quick. —

Poor gapin, glowrin Superstition!
Waes me, she's in a sad condition:
Fye! bring Black Jock her state-physician,
To see her water:
Alas! there 's ground for great suspicion,
She'll ne'er get better. —

Enthusiasm's past redemption,
Gane in a gallopin consumption:
Not a' her quacks wi' a' their gumption
Can ever mend her;
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
She'll soon surrender. —

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple
For every hole to get a stapple;
But now, she fetches at the thrapple
And fights for breath;
Haste, gie her name up in the Chapel
Near unto death. —

It's you and Taylor are the chief
To blame for a' this black mischief;
But could the L — d's ain folk get leave,
A toom tar-barrel
And twa red peats wad bring relief
And end the quarrel. —

For me, my skill's but very sma',
And skill in Prose I've nane ava;
But quietlenswise, between us twa,
Weel may ye speed;
And tho' they sud you sair misca',
Ne'er fash your head. —

E'en swinge the dogs; and thresh them sicker!
The mair they squeel ay chap the thicker;
And still 'mang hands a hearty bicker
O' something stout;
It gars an Owther's pulse beat quicker,
And helps his wit. —

There's naething like the honest nappy;
Whare'll ye e'er see men sae happy,
Or women sonsie, saft and sappy,
'Tween morn and morn,
As them wha like to taste the drappie
In glass or horn. —

I've seen me daez't upon a time,
I scarce could wink or see a styme;
Just ae hauf-mutchkin does me prime,
(Ought less, is little)
Then back I rattle on the rhyme,
As gleg's a whittle. —
I am &c.