Stanzas On Naething

Extempore Epistle to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.

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.