Robert Burns

Naething (Probably Addressed to Gavin Hamilton, 1786)

To you, Sir, this summons I’ve sent,
  	Pray whip till the pownie is fraething,
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 all about – naething.

The lover may sparkle and glow,
  	Approaching his bonnie 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 with 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 with 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 with 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 of 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 aught,
  	And my friendship, by God! when ye’ve naething.