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 believe are few;

Yet, if your catalogue be fow,

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 sometime roose me;

Tho I maun own, as monie still

As far abuse me.

There’s ae wee faut they whyles lay to me,

I like the lasses, Gude forgie me!

For monie 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;

And 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 take our whitter,

To cheer our heart;

An faith, we’se be acquainted better

Before we part.

Awa ye selfish, warly race,

Wha think that havins, sense, an grace,

Ev’n love an friendship should give place

To Catch-the-Plack!

I dinna like to see your face,

Nor hear your crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms,

Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,

Who hold your being on the terms,

Each aid the others.

Come to my bowl, come to my arms,

My friends, my brothers!

But, to conclude my lang epistle,

As my auld pen’s worn to the grissle,

Twa lines frae you would gar me fissle,