Robert Burns

Letter to John Goudie, Kilmarnock, on the Publication of His Essays

O GOUDIE! terror of the Whigs,
Dread o’ blackcoats and rev’rend wigs,
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
    Girnin’ looks back,
Wishin’ the ten Egyptian plagues
    Wad seize you quick.

Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition,
Wae’s me! she’s in a sad condition;
Fy, bring Black-Jock, her state physician,
    To see her water;
Alas! there’s ground for great suspicion
    She’ll ne’er get better.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
But now she’s got an unco’ ripple;
Haste, gie her name up i’ the chapel,
    Nigh unto death;
See how she fetches at the thrapple,
    An’ gasps for breath.

Enthusiasm’s past redemption,
Gane in a galloping consumption;
Not a’ the quacks, with a’ their gumption,
    Will ever mend her;
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
    Death soon will end her.

‘Tis you and Taylor are the chief,
Wha are to blame for this mischief;
But gin the Lord’s ain folk get leave,
    A toom tar-barrel
An’ twa red peats wad send relief,
    An’ end the quarrel.

For me, my skill’s but very sma’,
An’ skill in prose I’ve nane aye,
But, quietlins-wise, between us twa,
    Weel may ye speed!
An’, tho’ they sud you sair misca’,
    Ne’er fash your head.

E’en swinge the dogs, an’ thresh them siccar;
The mair they squeal, aye chap the thicker;
An’ still, ‘mang hands, a hearty bicker
    O’ something stout;-
It gars an author’s pulse beat quicker,
    An’ helps his wit!

There’s naething like the honest nappy!
Where will ye e’er see men sae happy,
Or women sousy, saft, an’ sappy,
    ‘Tween morn an’ morn,
As them wha like to taste the drappie
    In glass or horn?

I’ve seen me dazed upon a time,
I scarce cou’d wink or see a styme;
Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime
    (Ought less is little);
Then back I rattle on the rhyme
    As gleg’s a whittle!