ike a bar;
or turn the pole like any arrow;
or, when auld phoebus bids good-morrow,
down the zodiac urge the race,
and cast dirt on his godship's face;
for i could y my bread and kail
he'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail.—
wi' a' this care and a' this grief,
and sma', sma' prospect of relief,
and nought but peat reek i' my head,
how i write what ye read?—
tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' june,
ye'll find me in a better tune;
but till we meet a our whistle,
tak this excuse for le.
robert burns.