Then up I gat, an’ swoor an aith,
     Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh an’ graith,
     Or die a cadger pownie’s death,
     At some dyke-back,
     A pint an’ gill I’d gie them baith,
     To hear your crack.

     But, first an’ foremost, I should tell,
     Amaist as soon as I could spell,
     I to the crambo-jingle fell;
     Tho’ rude an’ rough—­
     Yet crooning to a body’s sel’
     Does weel eneugh.

     I am nae poet, in a sense;
     But just a rhymer like by chance,
     An’ hae to learning nae pretence;
     Yet, what the matter? 
     Whene’er my muse does on me glance,
     I jingle at her.

     Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
     And say, “How can you e’er propose,
     You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
     To mak a sang?”
     But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
     Ye’re maybe wrang.

     What’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools—­
     Your Latin names for horns an’ stools? 
     If honest Nature made you fools,
     What sairs your grammars? 
     Ye’d better taen up spades and shools,
     Or knappin-hammers.

     A set o’ dull, conceited hashes
     Confuse their brains in college classes! 
     They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
     Plain truth to speak;
     An’ syne they think to climb Parnassus
     By dint o’ Greek!

     Gie me ae spark o’ nature’s fire,
     That’s a’ the learning I desire;
     Then tho’ I drudge thro’ dub an’ mire
     At pleugh or cart,
     My muse, tho’ hamely in attire,
     May touch the heart.

     O for a spunk o’ Allan’s glee,
     Or Fergusson’s the bauld an’ slee,
     Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to be,
     If I can hit it! 
     That would be lear eneugh for me,
     If I could get it.

     Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,
     Tho’ real friends, I b’lieve, are few;
     Yet, if your catalogue be fu’,
     I’se no insist: 
     But, gif ye want ae friend that’s true,
     I’m on your list.

     I winna blaw about mysel,
     As ill I like my fauts to tell;
     But friends, an’ folk that wish me well,
     They sometimes roose me;
     Tho’ I maun own, as mony still
     As far abuse me.

     There’s ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,
     I like the lasses—­Gude forgie me! 
     For mony a plack they wheedle frae me
     At dance or fair;
     Maybe some ither thing they gie me,
     They weel can spare.

     But Mauchline Race, or Mauchline Fair,
     I should be proud to meet you there;
     We’se gie ae night’s discharge to care,
     If we forgather;
     An’ hae a swap o’ rhymin-ware
     Wi’ ane anither.

     The four-gill chap, we’se gar him clatter,
     An’ kirsen him wi’ reekin water;
     Syne we’ll sit down an’ tak our whitter,
     To cheer our heart;
     An’ faith, we’se be acquainted better
     Before we part.