Ye ugly,creepin,blastit wonner,Detested,shunn'd by saunt an'sinner,How daur ye set your fit upon her-Sae fine a lady?
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner On some poor body.
Swith!in some beggar's haffet squattle;
There ye may creep,and sprawl,and sprattle,Wi'ither kindred,jumping cattle,In shoals and nations;Whaur horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there,ye're out o'sight,Below the fatt'rels,snug and tight;Na,faith ye yet!ye'll no be right,Till ye've got on it-The verra tapmost,tow'rin height O'Miss'bonnet.
My sooth!right bauld ye set your nose out,As plump an'grey as ony groset:
O for some rank,mercurial rozet,Or fell,red smeddum,I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,Wad dress your droddum.
I wad na been surpris'd to spy You on an auld wife's flainen toy;Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy,On's wyliecoat;But Miss'fine Lunardi!fye!
How daur ye do't?
O Jeany,dinna toss your head,An'set your beauties a'abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makin:
Thae winks an'finger-ends,I dread,Are notice takin.
O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,An'foolish notion:
What airs in dress an'gait wad lea'e us,An'ev'n devotion!
Inscribed On A Work Of Hannah More's Presented to the Author by a Lady.
Thou flatt'ring mark of friendship kind,Still may thy pages call to mind The dear,the beauteous donor;Tho'sweetly female ev'ry part,Yet such a head,and more the heart Does both the sexes honour:
She show'd her taste refin'd and just,When she selected thee;Yet deviating,own I must,For sae approving me:
But kind still I'll mind still The giver in the gift;I'll bless her,an'wiss her A Friend aboon the lift.
Song,Composed In Spring tune-"Jockey's Grey Breeks."Again rejoicing Nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues:
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,All freshly steep'd in morning dews.
Chorus.-And maun I still on Menie doat,And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
For it's jet,jet black,an'it's like a hawk,An'it winna let a body be.
In vain to me the cowslips blaw,In vain to me the vi'lets spring;In vain to me in glen or shaw,The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
And maun I still,&c.
The merry ploughboy cheers his team,Wi'joy the tentie seedsman stalks;But life to me's a weary dream,A dream of ane that never wauks.
And maun I still,&c.
The wanton coot the water skims,Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,The stately swan majestic swims,And ev'ry thing is blest but I.
And maun I still,&c.
The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,And o'er the moorlands whistles shill:
Wi'wild,unequal,wand'ring step,I meet him on the dewy hill.
And maun I still,&c.
And when the lark,'tween light and dark,Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,And mounts and sings on flittering wings,A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
And maun I still,&c.
Come winter,with thine angry howl,And raging,bend the naked tree;Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,When nature all is sad like me!
And maun I still,&c.
To A Mountain Daisy,On turning down with the Plough,in April,1786.
Wee,modest crimson-tipped flow'r,Thou's met me in an evil hour;For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,Thou bonie gem.
Alas!it's no thy neibor sweet,The bonie lark,companion meet,Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,Wi'spreckl'd breast!
When upward-springing,blythe,to greet The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early,humble birth;Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm,Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth Thy tender form.
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;But thou,beneath the random bield O'clod or stane,Adorns the histie stibble field,Unseen,alane.
There,in thy scanty mantle clad,Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise;But now the share uptears thy bed,And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless maid,Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,And guileless trust;Till she,like thee,all soil'd,is laid Low i'the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard,On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore,Till billows rage,and gales blow hard,And whelm him o'er!
Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,By human pride or cunning driv'n To mis'ry's brink;Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,He,ruin'd,sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,That fate is thine-no distant date;Stern Ruin's plough-share drives elate,Full on thy bloom,Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,Shall be thy doom!
To Ruin All hail!inexorable lord!
At whose destruction-breathing word,The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel,woe-delighted train,The ministers of grief and pain,A sullen welcome,all!
With stern-resolv'd,despairing eye,I see each aimed dart;For one has cut my dearest tie,And quivers in my heart.
Then low'ring,and pouring,The storm no more I dread;Tho'thick'ning,and black'ning,Round my devoted head.
And thou grim Pow'r by life abhorr'd,While life a pleasure can afford,Oh!hear a wretch's pray'r!
Nor more I shrink appall'd,afraid;
I court,I beg thy friendly aid,To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul,in silent peace,Resign life's joyless day-My weary heart is throbbing cease,Cold mould'ring in the clay?
No fear more,no tear more,To stain my lifeless face,Enclasped,and grasped,Within thy cold embrace!
The Lament Occasioned by the unfortunate issue of a Friend's Amour.
Alas!how oft does goodness would itself,And sweet affection prove the spring of woe!
Home.
O thou pale orb that silent shines While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
Thou seest a wretch who inly pines.
And wanders here to wail and weep!
With woe I nightly vigils keep,Beneath thy wan,unwarming beam;And mourn,in lamentation deep,How life and love are all a dream!
I joyless view thy rays adorn The faintly-marked,distant hill;I joyless view thy trembling horn,Reflected in the gurgling rill:
My fondly-fluttering heart,be still!
Thou busy pow'r,remembrance,cease!
Ah!must the agonizing thrill For ever bar returning peace!
No idly-feign'd,poetic pains,My sad,love-lorn lamentings claim:
No shepherd's pipe-Arcadian strains;
No fabled tortures,quaint and tame.
The plighted faith,the mutual flame,The oft-attested pow'rs above,The promis'd father's tender name;These were the pledges of my love!
Encircled in her clasping arms,How have the raptur'd moments flown!
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms,For her dear sake,and her's alone!
And,must I think it!is she gone,My secret heart's exulting boast?
And does she heedless hear my groan?
And is she ever,ever lost?
Oh!can she bear so base a heart,So lost to honour,lost to truth,As from the fondest lover part,The plighted husband of her youth?
Alas!life's path may be unsmooth!
Her way may lie thro'rough distress!
Then,who her pangs and pains will soothe Her sorrows share,and make them less?
Ye winged hours that o'er us pass'd,Enraptur'd more,the more enjoy'd,Your dear remembrance in my breast My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd:
That breast,how dreary now,and void,For her too scanty once of room!
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd,And not a wish to gild the gloom!
The morn,that warns th'approaching day,Awakes me up to toil and woe;I see the hours in long array,That I must suffer,lingering,slow:
Full many a pang,and many a throe,Keen recollection's direful train,Must wring my soul,were Phoebus,low,Shall kiss the distant western main.
And when my nightly couch I try,Sore harass'd out with care and grief,My toil-beat nerves,and tear-worn eye,Keep watchings with the nightly thief:
Or if I slumber,fancy,chief,Reigns,haggard-wild,in sore affright:
Ev'n day,all-bitter,brings relief From such a horror-breathing night.
O thou bright queen,who o'er th'expanse Now highest reign'st,with boundless sway Oft has thy silent-marking glance Observ'd us,fondly-wand'ring,stray!
The time,unheeded,sped away,While love's luxurious pulse beat high,Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,To mark the mutual-kindling eye.
Oh!scenes in strong remembrance set!
Scenes,never,never to return!
Scenes,if in stupor I forget,Again I feel,again I burn!
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn,Life's weary vale I'll wander thro';And hopeless,comfortless,I'll mourn A faithless woman's broken vow!
Despondency:An Ode Oppress'd with grief,oppress'd with care,A burden more than I can bear,I set me down and sigh;O life!thou art a galling load,Along a rough,a weary road,To wretches such as I!
Dim backward as I cast my view,What sick'ning scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me through,Too justly I may fear!
Still caring,despairing,Must be my bitter doom;My woes here shall close ne'er But with the closing tomb!
Happy!ye sons of busy life,Who,equal to the bustling strife,No other view regard!
Ev'n when the wished end's denied,Yet while the busy means are plied,They bring their own reward:
Whilst I,a hope-abandon'd wight,Unfitted with an aim,Meet ev'ry sad returning night,And joyless morn the same!
You,bustling,and justling,Forget each grief and pain;I,listless,yet restless,Find ev'ry prospect vain.
How blest the solitary's lot,Who,all-forgetting,all forgot,Within his humble cell,The cavern,wild with tangling roots,Sits o'er his newly gather'd fruits,Beside his crystal well!
Or haply,to his ev'ning thought,By unfrequented stream,The ways of men are distant brought,A faint,collected dream;While praising,and raising His thoughts to heav'n on high,As wand'ring,meand'ring,He views the solemn sky.
Than I,no lonely hermit plac'd Where never human footstep trac'd,Less fit to play the part,The lucky moment to improve,And just to stop,and just to move,With self-respecting art:
But ah!those pleasures,loves,and joys,Which I too keenly taste,The solitary can despise,Can want,and yet be blest!
He needs not,he heeds not,Or human love or hate;Whilst I here must cry here At perfidy ingrate!
O,enviable,early days,When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,To care,to guilt unknown!
How ill exchang'd for riper times,To feel the follies,or the crimes,Of others,or my own!
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,Like linnets in the bush,Ye little know the ills ye court,When manhood is your wish!
The losses,the crosses,That active man engage;The fears all,the tears all,Of dim declining age!
To Gavin Hamilton,Esq.,Mauchline,Recommending a Boy.
Mossgaville,May 3,1786.
I hold it,sir,my bounden duty To warn you how that Master Tootie,Alias,Laird M'Gaun,Was here to hire yon lad away 'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,An'wad hae don't aff han';But lest he learn the callan tricks-
An'faith I muckle doubt him-
Like scrapin out auld Crummie's nicks,An'tellin lies about them;As lieve then,I'd have then Your clerkship he should sair,If sae be ye may be Not fitted otherwhere.
Altho'I say't,he's gleg enough,An''bout a house that's rude an'rough,The boy might learn to swear;But then,wi'you,he'll be sae taught,An'get sic fair example straught,I hae na ony fear.
Ye'll catechise him,every quirk,An'shore him weel wi'hell;An'gar him follow to the kirk-
Aye when ye gang yoursel.
If ye then maun be then Frae hame this comin'Friday,Then please,sir,to lea'e,sir,The orders wi'your lady.
My word of honour I hae gi'en,In Paisley John's,that night at e'en,To meet the warld's worm;To try to get the twa to gree,An'name the airles an'the fee,In legal mode an'form:
I ken he weel a snick can draw,When simple bodies let him:
An'if a Devil be at a',In faith he's sure to get him.
To phrase you and praise you,.
Ye ken your Laureat scorns:
The pray'r still you share still Of grateful Minstrel Burns.
Versified Reply To An Invitation Sir,Yours this moment I unseal,And faith I'm gay and hearty!
To tell the truth and shame the deil,I am as fou as Bartie:
But Foorsday,sir,my promise leal,Expect me o'your partie,If on a beastie I can speel,Or hurl in a cartie.
Yours,Robert Burns.
Mauchlin,Monday night,10o'clock.
song-Will Ye Go To The Indies,My Mary?
tune-"Will ye go to the Ewe-Bughts,Marion."Will ye go to the Indies,my Mary,And leave auld Scotia's shore?
Will ye go to the Indies,my Mary,Across th'Atlantic roar?
O sweet grows the lime and the orange,And the apple on the pine;But a'the charms o'the Indies Can never equal thine.
I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true;And sae may the Heavens forget me,When I forget my vow!
O plight me your faith,my Mary,And plight me your lily-white hand;O plight me your faith,my Mary,Before I leave Scotia's strand.
We hae plighted our troth,my Mary,In mutual affection to join;And curst be the cause that shall part us!
The hour and the moment o'time!
song-My Highland Lassie,O
tune-"The deuks dang o'er my daddy."
Nae gentle dames,tho'e'er sae fair,Shall ever be my muse's care:
Their titles a'arc empty show;
Gie me my Highland lassie,O.
Chorus.-Within the glen sae bushy,O,Aboon the plain sae rashy,O,I set me down wi'right guid will,To sing my Highland lassie,O.
O were yon hills and vallies mine,Yon palace and yon gardens fine!
The world then the love should know I bear my Highland Lassie,O.
But fickle fortune frowns on me,And I maun cross the raging sea!
But while my crimson currents flow,I'll love my Highland lassie,O.
Altho'thro'foreign climes I range,I know her heart will never change,For her bosom burns with honour's glow,My faithful Highland lassie,O.
For her I'll dare the billow's roar,For her I'll trace a distant shore,That Indian wealth may lustre throw Around my Highland lassie,O.
She has my heart,she has my hand,By secret troth and honour's band!
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,I'm thine,my Highland lassie,O.
Farewell the glen sae bushy,O!
Farewell the plain sae rashy,O!
To other lands I now must go,To sing my Highland lassie,O.
Epistle To A Young Friend May __,1786.
I Lang hae thought,my youthfu'friend,A something to have sent you,Tho'it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento:
But how the subject-theme may gang,Let time and chance determine;Perhaps it may turn out a sang:
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
Ye'll try the world soon,my lad;
And,Andrew dear,believe me,Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,Ev'n when your end's attained;And a'your views may come to nought,Where ev'ry nerve is strained.
I'll no say,men are villains a';
The real,harden'd wicked,Wha hae nae check but human law,Are to a few restricked;But,Och!mankind are unco weak,An'little to be trusted;If self the wavering balance shake,It's rarely right adjusted!
Yet they wha fa'in fortune's strife,Their fate we shouldna censure;For still,th'important end of life They equally may answer;A man may hae an honest heart,Tho'poortith hourly stare him;A man may tak a neibor's part,Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Aye free,aff-han',your story tell,When wi'a bosom crony;But still keep something to yoursel',Ye scarcely tell to ony:
Conceal yoursel'as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection;But keek thro'ev'ry other man,Wi'sharpen'd,sly inspection.
The sacred lowe o'weel-plac'd love,Luxuriantly indulge it;But never tempt th'illicit rove,Tho'naething should divulge it:
I waive the quantum o'the sin,The hazard of concealing;But,Och!it hardens a'within,And petrifies the feeling!
To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,Assiduous wait upon her;And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's justified by honour;Not for to hide it in a hedge,Nor for a train attendant;But for the glorious privilege Of being independent.
The fear o'hell's a hangman's whip,To haud the wretch in order;But where ye feel your honour grip,Let that aye be your border;Its slightest touches,instant pause-
Debar a'side-pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,Uncaring consequences.
The great Creator to revere,Must sure become the creature;But still the preaching cant forbear,And ev'n the rigid feature:
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,Be complaisance extended;An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended!
When ranting round in pleasure's ring,Religion may be blinded;Or if she gie a random sting,It may be little minded;But when on life we're tempest driv'n-
A conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fix'd wi'Heav'n,Is sure a noble anchor!
Adieu,dear,amiable youth!
Your heart can ne'er be wanting!
May prudence,fortitude,and truth,Erect your brow undaunting!
In ploughman phrase,"God send you speed,"Still daily to grow wiser;
And may ye better reck the rede,Then ever did th'adviser!
Address Of Beelzebub To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalbane,President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society,which met on the 23rd of May last at the Shakespeare,Covent Garden,to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders,who,as the Society were informed by Mr.M'Kenzie of Applecross,were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters whose property they were,by emigrating from the lands of Mr.Macdonald of Glengary to the wilds of Canada,in search of that fantastic thing-Liberty.
Long life,my Lord,an'health be yours,Unskaithed by hunger'd Highland boors;Lord grant me nae duddie,desperate beggar,Wi'dirk,claymore,and rusty trigger,May twin auld Scotland o'a life She likes-as butchers like a knife.
Faith you and Applecross were right To keep the Highland hounds in sight:
I doubt na!they wad bid nae better,Than let them ance out owre the water,Then up among thae lakes and seas,They'll mak what rules and laws they please:
Some daring Hancocke,or a Franklin,May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin;Some Washington again may head them,Or some Montgomery,fearless,lead them,Till God knows what may be effected When by such heads and hearts directed,Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire May to Patrician rights aspire!
Nae sage North now,nor sager Sackville,To watch and premier o'er the pack vile,-An'whare will ye get Howes and Clintons To bring them to a right repentance-To cowe the rebel generation,An'save the honour o'the nation?
They,an'be d-d!what right hae they To meat,or sleep,or light o'day?
Far less-to riches,pow'r,or freedom,But what your lordship likes to gie them?
But hear,my lord!Glengarry,hear!
Your hand's owre light to them,I fear;
Your factors,grieves,trustees,and bailies,I canna say but they do gaylies;They lay aside a'tender mercies,An'tirl the hallions to the birses;Yet while they're only poind't and herriet,They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit:
But smash them!crash them a'to spails,An'rot the dyvors i'the jails!
The young dogs,swinge them to the labour;Let wark an'hunger mak them sober!
The hizzies,if they're aughtlins fawsont,Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!
An'if the wives an'dirty brats Come thiggin at your doors an'yetts,Flaffin wi'duds,an'grey wi'beas',Frightin away your ducks an'geese;Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,The langest thong,the fiercest growler,An'gar the tatter'd gypsies pack Wi'a'their bastards on their back!
Go on,my Lord!I lang to meet you,An'in my house at hame to greet you;Wi'common lords ye shanna mingle,The benmost neuk beside the ingle,At my right han'assigned your seat,'Tween Herod's hip an'Polycrate:
Or if you on your station tarrow,Between Almagro and Pizarro,A seat,I'm sure ye're well deservin't;An'till ye come-your humble servant,Beelzebub.
June 1st,Anno Mundi,5790.
A Dream Thoughts,words,and deeds,the Statute blames with reason;But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason.
On reading,in the public papers,the Laureate's Ode,with the other parade of June 4th,1786,the Author was no sooner dropt asleep,than he imagined himself transported to the Birth-day Levee:and,in his dreaming fancy,made the following Address:
Guid-Mornin'to our Majesty!
May Heaven augment your blisses On ev'ry new birth-day ye see,A humble poet wishes.
My bardship here,at your Levee On sic a day as this is,Is sure an uncouth sight to see,Amang thae birth-day dresses Sae fine this day.
I see ye're complimented thrang,By mony a lord an'lady;"God save the King"'s a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said aye:
The poets,too,a venal gang,Wi'rhymes weel-turn'd an'ready,Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang,But aye unerring steady,On sic a day.
For me!before a monarch's face Ev'n there I winna flatter;For neither pension,post,nor place,Am I your humble debtor:
So,nae reflection on your Grace,Your Kingship to bespatter;There's mony waur been o'the race,And aiblins ane been better Than you this day.
'Tis very true,my sovereign King,My skill may weel be doubted;But facts are chiels that winna ding,An'downa be disputed:
Your royal nest,beneath your wing,Is e'en right reft and clouted,And now the third part o'the string,An'less,will gang aboot it Than did ae day.^1Far be't frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation,Or say,ye wisdom want,or fire,To rule this mighty nation:
But faith!I muckle doubt,my sire,Ye've trusted ministration To chaps wha in barn or byre Wad better fill'd their station Than courts yon day.
And now ye've gien auld Britain peace,Her broken shins to plaister,Your sair taxation does her fleece,Till she has scarce a tester:
For me,thank God,my life's a lease,Nae bargain wearin'faster,Or,faith!I fear,that,wi'the geese,I shortly boost to pasture I'the craft some day.
[Footnote 1:The American colonies had recently been lost.]
I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,When taxes he enlarges,(An'Will's a true guid fallow's get,A name not envy spairges),That he intends to pay your debt,An'lessen a'your charges;But,God-sake!let nae saving fit Abridge your bonie barges An'boats this day.
Adieu,my Liege;may freedom geck Beneath your high protection;An'may ye rax Corruption's neck,And gie her for dissection!
But since I'm here,I'll no neglect,In loyal,true affection,To pay your Queen,wi'due respect,May fealty an'subjection This great birth-day.
Hail,Majesty most Excellent!
While nobles strive to please ye,Will ye accept a compliment,A simple poet gies ye?
Thae bonie bairntime,Heav'n has lent,Still higher may they heeze ye In bliss,till fate some day is sent For ever to release ye Frae care that day.
For you,young Potentate o'Wales,I tell your highness fairly,Down Pleasure's stream,wi'swelling sails,I'm tauld ye're driving rarely;But some day ye may gnaw your nails,An'curse your folly sairly,That e'er ye brak Diana's pales,Or rattl'd dice wi'Charlie By night or day.
Yet aft a ragged cowt's been known,To mak a noble aiver;So,ye may doucely fill the throne,For a'their clish-ma-claver:
There,him^2at Agincourt wha shone,Few better were or braver:
And yet,wi'funny,queer Sir John,^3
He was an unco shaver For mony a day.
For you,right rev'rend Osnaburg,Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,Altho'a ribbon at your lug Wad been a dress completer:
As ye disown yon paughty dog,That bears the keys of Peter,Then swith!an'get a wife to hug,Or trowth,ye'll stain the mitre Some luckless day!
Young,royal Tarry-breeks,I learn,Ye've lately come athwart her-A glorious galley,^4stem and stern,Weel rigg'd for Venus'barter;But first hang out,that she'll discern,Your hymeneal charter;Then heave aboard your grapple airn,An'large upon her quarter,Come full that day.
Ye,lastly,bonie blossoms a',Ye royal lasses dainty,Heav'n mak you guid as well as braw,An'gie you lads a-plenty!
But sneer na British boys awa!
For kings are unco scant aye,An'German gentles are but sma',They're better just than want aye On ony day.
[Footnote 2:King Henry V.-R.B.]
[Footnote 3:Sir John Falstaff,vid.Shakespeare.-R.B.]
[Footnote 4:Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain Royal sailor's amour.-R.B.This was Prince William Henry,third son of George III,afterward King William IV.]
Gad bless you a'!consider now,Ye're unco muckle dautit;But ere the course o'life be through,It may be bitter sautit:
An'I hae seen their coggie fou,That yet hae tarrow't at it.
But or the day was done,I trow,The laggen they hae clautit Fu'clean that day.
A Dedication To Gavin Hamilton,Esq.
Expect na,sir,in this narration,A fleechin,fleth'rin Dedication,To roose you up,an'ca'you guid,An'sprung o'great an'noble bluid,Because ye're surnam'd like His Grace-Perhaps related to the race:
Then,when I'm tir'd-and sae are ye,Wi'mony a fulsome,sinfu'lie,Set up a face how I stop short,For fear your modesty be hurt.
This may do-maun do,sir,wi'them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;For me!sae laigh I need na bow,For,Lord be thankit,I can plough;And when I downa yoke a naig,Then,Lord be thankit,I can beg;Sae I shall say-an'that's nae flatt'rin-It's just sic Poet an'sic Patron.
The Poet,some guid angel help him,Or else,I fear,some ill ane skelp him!