By Robert Burns
When maukin bucks, at early fucks,
In dewy grass are seen, Sir,
And birds, on boughs, take off their mows
Among the leaves sae green, Sir;
Latona’s sun looks liquorish on
Dame Nature’s grand impetus
Till his prick go rise, then westward flies
To roger Madame Thetis.
Yon wandering rill that marks the hill,
And glances o’er the brae, Sir,
Slides by a bower where many a flower
Sheds fragrance on the day, Sir;
There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay,
To love they thought no crime, Sir:
The wild-birds sang, the echoes rang,
While Damons arse beat time, Sir.
First with the thrush, his thrust and push
Had compass large and long, Sir;
The blackbird next, his tuneful text,
Was bolder, clear and strong, Sir:
The linnet’s lay then came in play,
And the lark that soar’d aboon, Sir;
Till Damon fierce, mistimed his arse,
And fucked quite out of tune, Sir.