S O N h（1 / 2）

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