Dear Hamilton, ye 'll turn me dyver,
My muse sae bonny ye descrive her;
Ye blaw her sae, I 'm fear'd ye rive her,
For wi' a whid,
Gin ony higher up ye drive her,
She 'll rin red-wood.

Said I.—“Whisht,” quoth the vougy Jade,
“William 's a wise judicious lad,
“Has havins mair than e'er ye had,
“Ill-bred bog-staker;
“But me ye ne'er sae crouse had craw'd,
“Ye poor scull-thacker.

“It sets ye well indeed to gadge!
“Ere I t' Apollo did ye cadge,
“And got ye on his Honour's badge,
“Ungratefu' beast!
“A Glasgow capon and a fadge
“Ye thought a feast.

“Swith to Castalius' fountain brink,
“Dad down a grouf, and tak' a drink,
“Syne whisk out paper, pen, and ink,
“And do my bidding:
“Be thankfou, else I'se gar ye stink
“Yet on a midding.”

My mistress dear, your servant humble,
Said I, I shou'd be laith to drumble
Your passions, or e'er gar ye grumble;
'Tis ne'er be me
Shall scandalize, or say ye bummil
Ye'r poetrie.

Frae what I 've tell'd, my friend may learn
How sadly I ha'e been forfairn,
I 'd better been ayont side Cairn-
amount, I trow;
I 've kiss'd the taz, like a good bairn.
Now, Sir, to you:

Heal be your heart, gay couthy carle,
Lang may ye help to toom a barrel;
Be thy crown ay unclowr'd in quarrel,
When thou inclines
To knoit thrawn-gabbit sumphs that snarl
At our frank lines.

Ilk good chiel says, ye 're well worth gowd,
And blythness on ye 's well bestow'd,
'Mang witty Scots ye'r name 's be row'd,
Ne'er fame to tine;
The crooked clinkers shall be cow'd,
But ye shall shine.

Set out the burnt side of your shin,
For pride in poets is nae sin;
Glory 's the prize for which they rin,
And fame 's their jo;
And wha blaws best the horn shall win:
And wharefore no?

Quisquis vocabit nos vain-glorious,
Shaws scanter skill than malos mores,
Multi et magni men before us
Did stamp and swagger;
Probatum est exemplum, Horace
Was a bauld bragger.

Then let the doofarts, fash'd wi' spleen,
Cast up the wrang side of their een,
Pegh, fry, and girn, wi' spite and teen,
And fa' a flyting;
Laugh, for the lively lads will screen
Us frae back-biting.

If that the gypsies dinna spung us,
And foreign whiskers ha'e na dung us;
Gin I can snifter thro' mundungus,
Wi' boots and belt on,
I hope to see you at St. Mungo's,
Atween and beltan.