an' whiles, but aye owre late, i think

  braw sober lessons.

  of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,

  commen' to me the bardie clan;

  except it be some idle plan

  o' rhymin clink,

  the devil haet,—that i sud ban—

  they ever think.

  nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin,

  nae cares to gie us joy or grievin,

  but just the pouchie put the neive in,

  an' while ought's there,

  then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin',

  an' fash nae mair.

  leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure,

  my chief, amaist my only pleasure;

  at hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure,

  the muse, poor hizzie!

  tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,

  she's seldom lazy.

  haud to the muse, my daintie davie:

  the warl' may play you mony a shavie;

  but for the muse, she'll never leave ye,

  tho' e'er sae puir,

  na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie

  frae door tae door.