---
title: "Stanzas on Naething"
subtitle: "Extempore Epistle to Gavin Hamilton, Esq"
author: "Robert Burns"
form: "Poem"
year: "1786"
location: "Mossgiel"
source: "Project Gutenberg #1279 — Poems and Songs of Robert Burns"
source_url: "https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1279/pg1279.txt"
canonical_url: "https://robert-burns.com/poems/stanzas-on-naething/"
---

# Stanzas on Naething

### Extempore Epistle to Gavin Hamilton, Esq

## Poem
To you, sir, this summons I’ve sent,  
Pray, whip till the pownie is freathing;  
But if you demand what I want,  
I honestly answer you—naething.

Ne’er scorn a poor Poet like me,  
For idly just living and breathing,  
While people of every degree  
Are busy employed about—naething.

Poor Centum-per-centum may fast,  
And grumble his hurdies their claithing,  
He’ll find, when the balance is cast,  
He’s gane to the devil for-naething.

The courtier cringes and bows,  
Ambition has likewise its plaything;  
A coronet beams on his brows;  
And what is a coronet-naething.

Some quarrel the Presbyter gown,  
Some quarrel Episcopal graithing;  
But every good fellow will own  
Their quarrel is a’ about—naething.

The lover may sparkle and glow,  
Approaching his bonie bit gay thing:  
But marriage will soon let him know  
He’s gotten—a buskit up naething.

The Poet may jingle and rhyme,  
In hopes of a laureate wreathing,  
And when he has wasted his time,  
He’s kindly rewarded wi’—naething.

The thundering bully may rage,  
And swagger and swear like a heathen;  
But collar him fast, I’ll engage,  
You’ll find that his courage is—naething.

Last night wi’ a feminine whig—  
A Poet she couldna put faith in;  
But soon we grew lovingly big,  
I taught her, her terrors were naething.

Her whigship was wonderful pleased,  
But charmingly tickled wi’ ae thing,  
Her fingers I lovingly squeezed,  
And kissed her, and promised her—naething.

The priest anathemas may threat—  
Predicament, sir, that we’re baith in;  
But when honour’s reveille is beat,  
The holy artillery’s naething.

And now I must mount on the wave—  
My voyage perhaps there is death in;  
But what is a watery grave?  
The drowning a Poet is naething.

And now, as grim death’s in my thought,  
To you, sir, I make this bequeathing;  
My service as long as ye’ve ought,  
And my friendship, by God, when ye’ve naething.

---

Source: [Project Gutenberg #1279 — Poems and Songs of Robert Burns](https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1279/pg1279.txt)  
Canonical HTML: https://robert-burns.com/poems/stanzas-on-naething/