The days are getting longer

And today started with a 9 a.m. class, and there won’t be a chance to catch up with my own breathing until after the 4–6 p.m. meeting  -___-  But this isn’t the typical Wednesday, this meeting’s a one-time thing (or so they said) (or so it should).  But before the meeting, today’s poem:

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Epistle To John Goldie, In Kilmarnock, Author Of The Gospel Recovered

By Robert Burns

O Gowdie, terror o' the whigs,

Dread o' blackcoats and rev'rend wigs!

Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,

Girns an' looks back,

Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues

May seize you quick.

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition!

Wae's me, she's in a sad condition:

Fye: bring Black Jock, her state physician,

To see her water;

Alas, there's ground for great suspicion

She'll ne'er get better.

Enthusiasm's past redemption,

Gane in a gallopin' consumption:

Not a' her quacks, wi' a' their gumption,

Can ever mend her;

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,

She'll soon surrender.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,

For every hole to get a stapple;

But now she fetches at the thrapple,

An' fights for breath;

Haste, gie her name up in the chapel,

Near unto death.

It's you an' Taylor are the chief

To blame for a' this black mischief;

But, could the Lord's ain folk get leave,

A toom tar barrel

An' twa red peats wad bring relief,

And end the quarrel.

For me, my skill's but very sma',

An' skill in prose I've nane ava';

But quietlins-wise, between us twa,

Weel may you speed!

And tho' they sud your sair misca',

Ne'er fash your head.

E'en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!

The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker;

And still 'mang hands a hearty bicker

O' something stout;

It gars an owthor's pulse beat quicker,

And helps his wit.

There's naething like the honest nappy;

Whare'll ye e'er see men sae happy,

Or women sonsie, saft an' sappy,

'Tween morn and morn,

As them wha like to taste the drappie,

In glass or horn?

I've seen me dazed upon a time,

I scarce could wink or see a styme;

Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime, -

Ought less is little-

Then back I rattle on the rhyme,

As gleg's a whittle.