braw sober lessons.

of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,

men' to me the bardie n;

except it be some idle n

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 seldomzy.

haud to the muse, my daintie davie:

the warl' may y 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.