Thirsting for fame, at the Pierian spring,
The poet takes a waught, then 'seys to sing
Nature, and with the tentiest view to hit
Her bonny side with bauldest turns of wit.
Streams slide in verse, in verse the mountains rise;
When earth turns toom, he rummages the skies,
Mounts up beyond them, paints the fields of rest,
Doups down to visit ilka lawland ghaist.
O heartsome labour! wordy time and pains!
That frae the best esteem and friendship gains:
Be that my luck, and let the greedy bike,
Stock-job the warld among them as they like.

In blyth braid Scots allow me, Sir, to shaw
My gratitude, but fleetching or a flaw.
May rowth o' pleasures light upon you lang,
Till to the blest Elysian bow'rs ye gang,
Wha 've clapt my head sae brawly for my sang.
When honour'd Burchet and his maikes are pleas'd
With my corn-pipe, up to the stars I 'm heez'd;
Whence far I glowr to the fag-end of time,
And view the warld delighted wi' my rhyme:
That when the pride of sprush new words are laid,
I, like the classic authors, shall be read.
Stand yond, proud czar, I wadna niffer fame
With thee, for a' thy furs and paughty name.

If sic great ferlies, Sir, my muse can do,
As spin a three-plait praise where it is due,
Frae me there 's nane deserves it mair than you.
Frae me! — frae ilka ane; for sure a breast
Sae gen'rous is, of a' that 's good possest!
Till I can serve ye mair, I 'll wish ye weel,
And aft in sparkling claret drink your heal;
Minding the mem'ry of the great and good
Sweet Addison, the wale of human blood,
Wha fell (as Horace anes said to his billy)
" Nulli flebilior quam tibi Virgili. "