Classic Poem

The domestic denner I abhor!
As a thing almost unclean;
And only fit for merrit folk —
To fill wi' fat their een.

I envy not the husbandman
His broth and beef and ale:
There 's wark for him baith out and in,
Would make a poet pale.

For grace , I hold, lies in the waist ,
And shapely it should be —
Suggesting airy fancy's flight;
Just as you find in me.

I seldom eat but half a meal
(Tho' more I whiles desire)
In order that my wame may keep
With grace, and not aspire!

For O! were I to bag and hing,
Like some commercial stot ,
I'd paper, pen and ink resign
And lay my neck in a knot!

Drink and tobacco! — thae 's the things!
Gie me a good cigar! —
Whisky 's fine — O yes! I know it —
But smokes are better far.

The good Havana — that 's sublime!
And more to me than meat.
It's true, mayhap, it dulls the sense,
But then — the dreams are sweet!

And dreams to poet folk, you know,
(You rhyme a wee yourself)
Are more than half the life they live,
And keep from greed of pelf.

But, sir! — our muttons: where were we?
" Domestic denners " — O yes,
Well — perhaps I spoke too fast:
It's fair I should confess

To just a little sneaking wish
Anent domestic pie —
The wife and bairns and a' the kit
Of charms: wha can deny?

Dreams may be fine, but Lord! there's whiles
That something more ye want
Than barren fumes o' smoke and drink —
Unless ye're born a saunt!

I'd gie my lugs, and maist my rhymes!
To know that dream of dreams
Domestic bliss — the perfect state,
As whiles to me it seems.