; livin,
nae cares to gie us jrievin,
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 seldom zy.
haud to the muse, my daintie davie:
the warl' may py you mony a shavie;
but for the muse, she'll never leave ye,
tho' e'er sae puir,
Second Epistle to Davie(3/4)