The Counterblast Ironical

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.