Address To The Toothache
by Robert Burns
Written when the Author was grievously tormented by that disorder.
My curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang,
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance;
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines!
When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes;
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan;
But thee - thou hell o' a' diseases! Aye mocks our groan.
Adown my beard the slavers trickle, I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle To see me loup;
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup.
O' a' the numerous human dools, Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools - Sad sight to see!
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree.
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell,
And rankèd plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw,
Thou. Toothache, surely bear'st the bell Amang them a'!
O thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes of discord squeal,
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick; -
Gie a' the foes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's Toothache!
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