Epistle To William Simson
the ng, dark night!
the muse, nae poet ever fand her,
till by himsel he learn'd to wander,
adown some trottin burn's meander,
an' no think ng:
o sweet to stray, an' pensive ponder
a heart-felt sang!
the war'ly race may drudge an' drive,
hog-shouther, juretch, an' strive;
let me fair nature's face descrive,
and i, wi' pleasure,
shall let the busy, grumbling hive
bum owre their treasure.
fareweel, “my rhyme-posing” brither!
we've been unkenn'd to ither:
now let us y our heads thegither,
Epistle To William Simson(6/7)