O Gowdie, terror o’ the whigs,
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.
Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition!
Wae’s me, she’s in a sad condition:
Fye: bring Black Jock,^1her state physician,
To see her water;
Alas, there’s ground for great suspicion
She’ll ne’er get better.
Enthusiasm’s past redemption,
Ganein 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.
AuldOrthodoxy langdid grapple,
For every hole to get a stapple;
But now she fetchesat the thrapple,
An’ fights for breath;
Haste, gieher name up in the chapel,^2
Near unto death.
It’s you an’ Taylor^3are the chief
To blame for a’this black mischief;
But, could the Lord’s ainfolk getleave,
A toomtar barrel
An’ twaredpeats wadbring relief,
And end the quarrel.
For me, my skill’s but very sma’,
An’ skill in prose I’ve naneava’;
Butquietlins-wise, between us twa,
Weelmay you speed!
And tho’ they sudyour sairmisca’,
Ne’er fashyour head.
E’enswinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!
The mairthey squeel aye chapthe thicker;
And still ‘mang hands a hearty bicker
O’something stout;
It gars anowthor’s pulse beat quicker,
And helps his wit.
There’s naethinglike the honest nappy;
Whare’ll ye e’ersee men saehappy,
Or women sonsie, saftan’sappy,
‘Tween morn and morn,
As them whalike to taste the drappie,
In glass or horn?
I’ve seen me dazed upon a time,
I scarce could wink orsee a styme;
Just aehalf-mutchkin does me prime, –
Oughtless is little-
Then back I rattle on the rhyme,
As gleg’s a whittle.