The Poet may jingle and rhyme,
In hopes of a laureate wreathing,
And when he has wasted his time,
He's kindly rewarded wi'--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 wi' 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 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 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 is a watery grave?
The drowning a Poet is naething.