Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14. |
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| 67. Epistle to John Goldie, in Kilmarnock |
| | | | | Author of the Gospel Recovered.—August, 1785 |
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| 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 | 5 |
| May seize you quick. | |
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| Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition! | |
| Wae’s me, she’s in a sad condition: | |
| Fye: bring Black Jock, 1 her state physician, | |
| To see her water; | 10 |
| Alas, there’s ground for great suspicion | |
| She’ll ne’er get better. | |
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| Enthusiasm’s past redemption, | |
| Gane in a gallopin’ consumption: | |
| Not a’ her quacks, wi’ a’ their gumption, | 15 |
| Can ever mend her; | |
| Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption, | |
| She’ll soon surrender. | |
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| Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, | |
| For every hole to get a stapple; | 20 |
| But now she fetches at the thrapple, | |
| An’ fights for breath; | |
| Haste, gie her name up in the chapel, 2 | |
| Near unto death. | |
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| It’s you an’ Taylor 3 are the chief | 25 |
| To blame for a’ this black mischief; | |
| But, could the L—d’s ain folk get leave, | |
| A toom tar barrel | |
| An’ twa red peats wad bring relief, | |
| And end the quarrel. | 30 |
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| For me, my skill’s but very sma’, | |
| 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’, | 35 |
| Ne’er fash your head. | |
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| E’en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker! | |
| The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker; | |
| And still ’mang hands a hearty bicker | |
| O’ something stout; | 40 |
| It gars an owthor’s pulse beat quicker, | |
| And helps his wit. | |
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| There’s naething like the honest nappy; | |
| Whare’ll ye e’er see men sae happy, | |
| Or women sonsie, saft an’ sappy, | 45 |
| ’Tween morn and morn, | |
| As them wha like to taste the drappie, | |
| In glass or horn? | |
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| I’ve seen me dazed upon a time, | |
| I scarce could wink or see a styme; | 50 |
| Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,— | |
| Ought less is little— | |
| Then back I rattle on the rhyme, | |
| As gleg’s a whittle. | |
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