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The Counterblast Ironical

by Robert Louis Stevenson, 1885

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.

Published in A Child's Garden of Verses

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.