Extempore. To Mr. Gavin Hamilton

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 bonie 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 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 could na put faith in,

But soon we grew lovingly big,

I taught her, her terrors were naething.

Her whigship was wonderful pleased,

But charmingly tickled wi' 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 reveillé 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 G—, when ye've naething.