E T J h G I K（1 / 2）

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,

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