Ix—The Counterblast Ironical

IT’S strange that God should fash to frame The yearth and lift sae hie, An’ clean forget to explain the same To a gentleman like me.

They gutsy, donnered ither folk, Their weird they weel may dree; But why present a pig in a poke To a gentleman like me?

They ither folk their parritch eat An’ sup their sugared tea; But the mind is no to be wyled wi’ meat Wi’ a gentleman like me.

They ither folk, they court their joes At gloamin’ on the lea; But they’re made of a commoner clay, I suppose, Than a gentleman like me.

They ither folk, for richt or wrang, They suffer, bleed, or dee; But a’ thir things are an emp’y sang To a gentleman like me.

It’s a different thing that I demand, Tho’ humble as can be— A statement fair in my Maker’s hand To a gentleman like me:

A clear account writ fair an’ broad, An’ a plain apologie; Or the deevil a ceevil word to God From a gentleman like me.