Epistle To John Goldie, In Kilmarnock Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: ABCDE FFFGFG FFFGFG HHHIHI JKLHJH MJNOEP GGGQGR SSSTST MMMHMH| nd wigs | A |
| Sour Bigotry on her last legs | B |
| Girns an' looks back | C |
| Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues | D |
| May seize you quick | E |
| - | |
| - | |
| Poor gapin' glowrin' Superstition | F |
| Wae's me she's in a sad condition | F |
| Fye bring Black Jock her state physician | F |
| To see her water | G |
| Alas there's ground for great suspicion | F |
| She'll ne'er get better | G |
| - | |
| - | |
| Enthusiasm's past redemption | F |
| Gane in a gallopin' consumption | F |
| Not a' her quacks wi' a' their gumption | F |
| Can ever mend her | G |
| Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption | F |
| She'll soon surrender | G |
| - | |
| - | |
| Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple | H |
| For every hole to get a stapple | H |
| But now she fetches at the thrapple | H |
| An' fights for breath | I |
| Haste gie her name up in the chapel | H |
| Near unto death | I |
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| - | |
| It's you an' Taylor are the chief | J |
| To blame for a' this black mischief | K |
| But could the L d's ain folk get leave | L |
| A toom tar barrel | H |
| An' twa red peats wad bring relief | J |
| And end the quarrel | H |
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| - | |
| For me my skill's but very sma' | M |
| An' skill in prose I've nane ava' | J |
| But quietlins wise between us twa | N |
| Weel may you speed | O |
| And tho' they sud your sair misca' | E |
| Ne'er fash your head | P |
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| - | |
| E'en swinge the dogs and thresh them sicker | G |
| The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker | G |
| And still 'mang hands a hearty bicker | G |
| O' something stout | Q |
| It gars an owthor's pulse beat quicker | G |
| And helps his wit | R |
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| There's naething like the honest nappy | S |
| Whare'll ye e'er see men sae happy | S |
| Or women sonsie saft an' sappy | S |
| 'Tween morn and morn | T |
| As them wha like to taste the drappie | S |
| In glass or horn | T |
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| I've seen me dazed upon a time | M |
| I scarce could wink or see a styme | M |
| Just ae half mutchkin does me prime | M |
| Ought less is little | H |
| Then back I rattle on the rhyme | M |
| As gleg's a whittle | H |
Robert Burns
(1)
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