“You know, you dogs, your master long has felt
  A keen distemper in the royal pelt—­
  A testy, superficial irritation,
  Brought home, I fancy, from some foreign nation. 
  For this a thousand simples you’ve prescribed—­
  Unguents external, draughts to be imbibed. 
  You’ve plundered Scotland of its plants, the seas
  You’ve ravished, and despoiled the Hebrides,
  To brew me remedies which, in probation,
  Were sovereign only in their application. 
  In vain, and eke in pain, have I applied
  Your flattering unctions to my soul and hide: 
  Physic and hope have been my daily food—­
  I’ve swallowed treacle by the holy rood!

  “Your wisdom, which sufficed to guide the year
  And tame the seasons in their mad career,
  When set to higher purposes has failed me
  And added anguish to the ills that ailed me. 
  Nor that alone, but each ambitious leech
  His rivals’ skill has labored to impeach
  By hints equivocal in secret speech. 
  For years, to conquer our respective broils,
  We’ve plied each other with pacific oils. 
  In vain:  your turbulence is unallayed,
  My flame unquenched; your rioting unstayed;
  My life so wretched from your strife to save it
  That death were welcome did I dare to brave it. 
  With zeal inspired by your intemperate pranks,
  My subjects muster in contending ranks. 
  Those fling their banners to the startled breeze
  To champion some royal ointment; these
  The standard of some royal purge display
  And ’neath that ensign wage a wasteful fray! 
  Brave tongues are thundering from sea to sea,
  Torrents of sweat roll reeking o’er the lea! 
  My people perish in their martial fear,
  And rival bagpipes cleave the royal ear!

  “Now, caitiffs, tremble, for this very hour
  Your injured sovereign shall assert his power! 
  Behold this lotion, carefully compound
  Of all the poisons you for me have found—­
  Of biting washes such as tan the skin,
  And drastic drinks to vex the parts within. 
  What aggravates an ailment will produce—­
  I mean to rub you with this dreadful juice! 
  Divided counsels you no more shall hatch—­
  At last you shall unanimously scratch. 
  Kneel, villains, kneel, and doff your shirts—­God bless us! 
  They’ll seem, when you resume them, robes of Nessus!”

  The sovereign ceased, and, sealing what he spoke,
  From Arthur’s Seat[1] confirming thunders broke. 
  The conscious culprits, to their fate resigned,
  Sank to their knees, all piously inclined. 
  This act, from high Ben Lomond where she floats,
  The thrifty goddess, Caledonia, notes. 
  Glibly as nimble sixpence, down she tilts
  Headlong, and ravishes away their kilts,
  Tears off each plaid and all their shirts discloses,
  Removes each shirt and their broad backs exposes.