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Index

Address To The Toothache.

 

Burns Original

Standard English Translation


1.
My curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gooms alang,
An' thro' my lug gies monie a twang
Wh' gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!
2.
A' down my beard the slavers trickle,
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
While round the fire the giglets keckle
To see me loup,
An' raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were i' their doup!
3.
When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes,
Our neebors sympathize to ease us
Wi' pitying moan;
But thee! - thou hell o' a' diseases,
They mock our groan!
4.
Of a' the num'rous human dools --
Ill-hairsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy frien's laid i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools --
Thou bear'st the gree!
5.
Whare'er that place be priests ca' Hell,
Whare a' the tones o' misery yell,
An' ranked plagues their numbers tell
In dreadfu' raw,
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell
Amang them a'!
6.
O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes o' discord squeal,
Till humankind aft dance a reel
In gore a shoe-thick,
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal
A towmond's toothache.



My curse upon your venomed sting,
That shoots my tortured gums along,
And through my ear gives many a twinge
With gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves with bitter pang,
Like racking engines!

All down my beard the drools trickle,
I throw the little stools over the mickle,
While round the fire the children cackle
To see me leap,
And raving mad, I wish a Heckling comb
Were in their backside!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes,
Our neighbours sympathize to ease us
With pitying moan;
But you! - you hell of all diseases,
They mocks our groan!

Of all the numerous human woes -
Bad harvests, stupid bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends laid in the crumbling earth,
Sad sight to see!
The tricks of knaves, or annoyance of fools -
You bears the prize!

Where ever that place be priests call Hell,
Where all the tones of misery yell,
And ranked plagues their numbers tell
In dreadful row,
You, Toothache, surely bears the bell
Among them all!

O you grim, mischief-making chap,
That makes the notes of discord squeal,
Till humankind often dance a reel
In gore a shoe-thick,
Give all the foes of Scotland's well
A twelve months toothache.

 

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