MY curse upon thy venomed stang, That shoots my tortured gums alang; An' through my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance! Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines. When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; Our neighbor's sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee, -- thou hell o' a' diseases, Aye mocks our groan. Adown my beard the slavers trickle; I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup. O' a' the numerous human dools, Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree. Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell, Among them a'; O thou grim mischief-making chiel, And surely mickle's much. Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick! -- Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A fowmond's Toothache! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN ARCTIC VISION [JUNE 20, 1867] by FRANCIS BRET HARTE IDYLLS OF THE KING: THE PASSING OF ARTHUR by ALFRED TENNYSON THE LACHRYMATORY by CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER APRIL by OBADIAH CYRUS AURINGER S. BARNABIE by JOSEPH BEAUMONT DINNER by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON PSALM 117 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE |