Classic Poem

Toothache ! thousand curses greet thee,
Worst of all woes,
I resent how thou didst treat the
Best of fellows;
Other sickness gives us respite,
Hope of mending,
Thou, fell brute, but dost us despite,
Murderous ending.
That drink or dram our jaws should enter,
Thou'rt unwilling,
But thou on our skull dost centre,
Us soon killing.
No sooner Donald Fraser uprose
From the quartan,
Than thou thy venom sent on purpose
Sore to thwart him;
It nought served thee, fever-baitin'
Of the frail thing,
But thou then, bad limb of Satan,
To go flail him!
His head-bones and his countenance,
All his own teeth,
As if them a miller pounded once
His millstone 'neath:
Or as 'twere a Lowland blacksmith,
Tightly screwing
The fixed hardened vice he acts with,
Steel outdoing.
But comes thy fate, an truth pass muster,
If Lovat hear,
To pay thee out, thou beastly thruster,
For his clan fere,
He will fire the guns to warm thee,
And not we all,
Bring from England the red army
That he thee maul
With red cannon balls and blazing
Driven by powder—
Shame on thee, thou took no base thing,
Or some bounder,
But one generous and gallant
To dumbfounder,
And so many hags, sharp, squalling,
And gadabout tarts
(That should have had their teeth and palate
Separate parts)
Between Perth, St Kilda, Islay
And Moidart land,
Or (would you fain wield your shillealy)
At home near hand?