Classic Poem

A Present perhaps ye'll conclude this to be,
But open't and keek down the brink—
Surpris'd ye're nae doubt at a message sae wee,
A dorty bit bottlie for ink.

Yet sma' tho' it seem, 'tis a manifest truth,
That Castles frae out o't hae risen,
An' claughins, an' mountains, maun start frae its mouth,
An' Critics in mony a stern dozen.

Then since sic a terrible squad's to be drawn,
Siccan thrangs o' corruption an' evil;
Let the liquor, gude Sir, that ye sen' owre the lawn,
Be as smooth, an' as black as the d—l.