But scarce would stoop the wordy war to wage
With poisoned epithet and shrewish flout
Like scorpion-tongued Thersites.
Here, no doubt,
By Black Craig Castle party wasps would turn
To honey-hiving bees. Oh, tinkling burn,
You set my soul to music. Honest John,
Valiant Sir William, you must still fight on
A little longer. Would ye both were here.
Armitstead's guests, like me, like me with cheer