stanzas on naethg
extepore epistle to gav hailton, esq
to you, sir, this suons i&039;ve sent,
pray, whip till the pownie is freathg;
but if you deand what i want,
i honestly answer you—naethg
ne&039;er srn a poor poet like ,
for idly jt livg and breathg,
while people of every degree
are by eployed about—naethg
poor centu-per-centu ay fast,
and gruble his hurdies their cithg,
he&039;ll fd, when the bance is cast,
he&039;s gane to the devil for-naethg
the urtier crs and bows,
abition has likewise its pythg;
a ro beas on his brows;
and what is a ro-naethg
arrel the presbyter gown,
arrel epispal graithg;
but every good fellow will own
their arrel is a&039; about—naethg
the lover ay sparkle and glow,
approachg his bonie bit gay thg:
but arria will on let hi know
he&039;s gotten—a bkit up naethg
the poet ay jgle and rhy,
hopes of a ureate wreathg,
and when he has wasted his ti,
he&039;s kdly rewarded wi&039;—naethg
the thunderg bully ay ra,
and swagr and swear like a heathen;
but lr hi fast, i&039;ll enga,
you&039;ll fd that his ura is—naethg
st night wi&039; a fee whig—
a poet she uldna put faith ;
but on we grew lovgly big,
i taught her, her terrors were naethg
her whigship was wonderful pleased,
but chargly tickled wi&039; ae thg,
her frs i lovgly seezed,
and kissed her, and proised her—naethg
the priest anatheas ay threat—
predicant, sir, that we&039;re baith ;
but when honour&039;s reveille is beat,
the holy artillery&039;s naethg
and now i t ount on the wave—
y voya perhaps there is death ;
but what is a watery grave?
the drowng a poet is naethg
and now, as gri death&039;s y thought,
to you, sir, i ake this bee
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