address to the toothache

my curse upon your venom'd stang,

that shoots my tortur'd gums ng,

an' thro' my lug gies mony a twang,

wi' gnawing vengeance,

tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,

like racking engines!

when fevers burn, or argues freezes,

rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes,

our neibor's sympathy can ease us,

wi' pitying moan;

but thee—thou hell o' a' diseases—

aye mocks our groan.

adown my beard the vers trickle

i throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,

while round the fire the giglets keckle,

to see me loup,

while, raving mad, i wish a heckle

were in their doup!