Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither, Let time mak proof; But shall I scribble down some blether Just clean aff-loof. I am nae poet, in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, And hae to learning nae pretence. Yet, what the matter? Whene’er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her.…
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