A Scot deprived of usquebaugh
Is very disinclined to laugh.
He’s short of bounce; he lacks panache.
His face is glum, his heart an ache.
He will not dance a gladsome reel
Or gaily strum a ukelele.
He won’t drink Babycham, nor take
A glass of Malibu or sake.
Whatever other drink you pour,
He’ll look extremely dour and sour.
Yet, I have noted, in his doles
He shuns excessive hyperboles
But quite exclusively emotes
In gruffly-accented litotes,
And even when the precious fluid
Comes at last, just says, “That’s guid.”
(from An Essay on Rhyme and other verses)