the fau't wad be mine if they didna shine

the sweetest and best o' them a', man.

i lo'e her mysel, but darena weel tell,

my poverty keeps me in awe, man;

for making o' rhymes, and working at times,

does little or naething at a', man.

yet i wadna choose to let her refuse,

nor hae't in her power to say na, man:

for though i be poor, unnoticed, obscure,

my stomach's as proud as them a', man.

though i canna ride in weel-booted pride,

and flee o'er the hills like a craw, man,

i can haud up my head wi' the best o' the breed,

though fluttering ever so braw, man.

my coat and my vest, they are scotch o' the best,

o'pairs o' guid breeks i hae twa, man;

and stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,

and ne'er a wrang steek in them a', man.

my sarks they are few, but five o' them new,

twal' hundred, as white as the snaw, man,

a ten-shillings hat, a hond cravat;

there are no mony poets sae braw, man.

i never had frien's weel stockit in means,

to leave me a hundred or twa, man;

nae weel-tocher'd aunts, to wait on their drants,

and wish them in hell for it a', man.

i never was cannie for hoarding o' money,

or ughtin't together at a', man;

i've little to spend, and naething to lend,

but deevil a shilling i awe, man.