I am nae poet, in a sense,
But just a rhymer, like by chance,
And 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 make 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 and stools;
If honest nature made you fools,
What sairs16 your grammars?
Ye'd better ta'en up spadds and shools,
Or knappin'-hammers.17

40

45

50

55

60

65

15

It thirl'd' the heart-strings through the breast, A' to the life.

A set o' dull conceited hashes, 18

Confuse their brains in college classes!