Shut in a closet six foot square,
No fash'd with meikle wealth or care,
I pass the live-lang day;
Yet some ambitious thoughts I have,
Which will attend me to my grave,
Sic busked baits they lay.

These keep my fancy on the wing,
Something that 's blyth and snack to sing,
And smooth the runkled brow:
Thus care I happily beguile,
Hoping a plaudit and a smile
Frae best of men, like you.

You wha in kittle casts of state,
When property demands debate,
Can right what is done wrang;
Yet blythly can, when ye think fit,
Enjoy your friend, and judge the wit
And slidness of a sang.

How mony, your reverse, unblest,
Whase minds gae wand'ring thro' a mist,
Proud as the thief in hell,
Pretend, forsooth, they 're gentle-fowk,
'Cause chance gi'es them of gear the yowk,
And better chiels the shell!

I 've seen a wean aft vex itsell,
And greet because it was not tall:
Heez'd on a board, O! than,
Rejoicing in the artfu' height,
How smirky look'd the little wight,
And thought itsell a man!

Sic bairns are some, blawn up a wee
With splendor, wealth, and quality,
Upon these stilts grown vain,
They o'er the pows of poor fowk stride,
And neither are to had nor bide,
Thinking this height their ain.

Now shou'd ane speer at sic a puff,
What gars thee look sae big and bluff?
Is 't an attending menzie?
Or fifty dishes on your table?
Or fifty horses in your stable?
Or heaps of glancing cunzie?

Are these the things thou ca's thysell?
Come, vain gigantic shadow, tell;
If thou sayest yes, I 'll shaw
Thy picture; mean 's thy silly mind,
Thy wit 's a croil, thy judgment blind,
And love worth nought ava.

Accept our praise, ye nobly born,
Whom heaven takes pleasure to adorn
With ilka manly gift;
In courts or camps to serve your nation,
Warm'd with that generous emulation
Which your forbears did lift.

In duty, with delight, to you
Th' inferior world do justly bow,
While you 're the maist deny'd;
Yet shall your worth be ever priz'd,
When strutting nathings are despis'd,
With a' their stinking pride.

This to set aff as I am able,
I 'll frae a Frenchman thigg a fable,
And busk it in a plaid;
And tho' it be a bairn of Motte's,
When I have taught it to speak Scots,
I am its second dad.