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 leave, 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 learnin' I desire; 
 Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire 
 At pleugh or cart, 
 My Muse, though hamely in attire, 
 May touch the heart....