Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
67 . Epistle to John Goldie, in Kilmarnock
O G
Dread o’ blackcoats and rev’rend wigs!
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girns an’ looks back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues
May seize you quick.
Wae’s 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. 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. For every hole to get a stapple; But now she fetches at the thrapple, An’ fights for breath; Haste, gie her name up in the chapel, Near unto death. To blame for a’ this black mischief; A toom tar barrel An’ twa red peats wad bring relief, And end the quarrel. An’ skill in prose I’ve nane ava’; But quietlins-wise, between us twa, Weel may you speed! And tho’ they sud your sair misca’, Ne’er fash your head. The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker; And still ’mang hands a hearty bicker O’ something stout; It gars an owthor’s pulse beat quicker, And helps his wit. Whare’ll ye e’er see men sae happy, Or women sonsie, saft an’ sappy, ’Tween morn and morn, As them wha like to taste the drappie, In glass or horn? I scarce could wink or see a styme; Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,— Ought less is little— Then back I rattle on the rhyme, As gleg’s a whittle.