epistle to john goldie, kilarnock
author of the gospel revered—augt, 1785
o gowdie, terror o&039; the whigs,
dread o&039; bckats and rev&039;rend wigs!
ur bigotry, on her st legs,
girns an&039; looks back,
wishg the ten egyptian pgues
ay seize you ick
poor gap&039;, glowr&039; superstition!
wae&039;s , she&039;s a sad ndition:
fye: brg bck jock, her state physician,
to see her water;
as, there&039;s ground for great spicion
she&039;ll ne&039;er t better
enthias&039;s past redeption,
gane a gallop&039; nsuption:
not a&039; her acks, wi&039; a&039; their guption,
can ever nd her;
her feeble pulse gies strong presuption,
she&039;ll on surrender
auld orthodoxy ng did grapple,
for every hole to t a stapple;
but now she fetches at the thrapple,
an&039; fights for breath;
haste, gie her na up the chapel,
near unto death
it&039;s you an&039; taylor are the chief
to b for a&039; this bck ischief;
but, uld the lord&039;s a folk t leave,
a too tar barrel
an&039; a red peats wad brg relief,
and end the arrel
for , y skill&039;s but very sa&039;,
an&039; skill prose i&039;ve nane ava&039;;
but ietls-wise, beeen a,
weel ay you speed!
and tho&039; they sud your sair isca&039;,
ne&039;er fash your head
e&039;en s the dogs, and thresh the sicker!
the air they seel aye chap the thicker;
and still &039;ang hands a hearty bicker
o&039; thg stout;
it gars an owthor&039;s pulse beat icker,
and helps his wit
there&039;s naethg like the honest nappy;
whare&039;ll ye e&039;er see n sae happy,
or won nsie, saft an&039; sappy,
&039;een orn and orn,
as the wha like to taste the drappie,
gss or horn?
i&039;ve seen dazed upon a ti,
i
草小说