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.4
Ne’er scorn a poor Poet like me,For idly just living and breathing,While people of every degreeAre busy employed about—naething.8
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.12
The courtier cringes and bows,Ambition has likewise its plaything;A coronet beams on his brows;And what is a coronet-naething.16
Some quarrel the Presbyter gown,Some quarrel Episcopal graithing;But every good fellow will ownTheir quarrel is a’ about—naething.20
The lover may sparkle and glow,Approaching his bonie bit gay thing:But marriage will soon let him knowHe’s gotten—a buskit up naething.24
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.28
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.32
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.36
Her whigship was wonderful pleased,But charmingly tickled wi’ ae thing,Her fingers I lovingly squeezed,And kissed her, and promised her—naething.40
The priest anathemas may threat—Predicament, sir, that we’re baith in;But when honour’s reveille is beat,The holy artillery’s naething.44
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.48
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.52