Written the Next Morning
By Hugh Porter
after having Dined and Supped with the Rev. Messrs T and B
What is the man, that could compute
What e'en ae night can bring about?
Yestreen, on Parson's Hill, my snoot
I cock'd, like - wha could tell what?
This morn immers'd in smoke an' soot,
I'm like - I ken mysel', that -
Yestreen, sedate I sat beside
My T****, my frien', my country's pride,
An' him wha cross'd the ocean wide,
An' brought us owre fu' cantie,
Upon a smooth castalian tide,
Th' Italic Homer, Dante.
Yestreen, like some great knight or squire,
I loll'd upon a cushion'd chair,
An' fed on rich an' dainty fare,
Whar kindness aye comes gratis;
This morn, I on a stool maun share
A breakfast o' potatoes.
Yestreen the privilege was mine
To drink the rich an' rosy wine
Like ony favourite o' the nine,
And what's a serious matter,
This morn, the produce o' the vine
Is turn'd, wi' me, to water.
Yet, water, for to tell the truth,
Is famous ay for quenchin' drouth;
If we dislike it, in the mouth
We needna let it dally;
Whon past the palle, then forsooth,
It does a body bra'ly;
But on the hale, I've learn'd to know
There's naething certain here below;
E'en Bonaparte might be laid low,
Wha fain our necks wad tread on,
An' whon he gets the hin'most blow,
Nae matter what he fed on.
