Classic Poem

Nor will the search be hard or long:
For tho' 'tis true that Mither-tongue
Has had the melancholy fate
To be neglekit by the great,
She still has fun an open door
Amang the uncurruptit poor,
Wha be na weent to treat wi' scorn
A gentlewoman bred and born,
But bid her, thoch in tatters drest,
A hearty welcome to their best.

There aft on benmaist bink she sits,
And sharps the edge of cuintry wits,
Wi' routh of gabby saws, an' says,
An' jokes, an' gibes of uther days:
That gi'e si'k gust to rustic sport,
And gar the langsome night leuk short.

At uther times in some warm neuk
She to the cutchok ha'ds a beuk,
And reids in si'k a magic tone,
The deeds that our forebeirs ha' done:
That — as 'tis said of that faim't Greek
Wha gaed to hell his wife to seek,
Sa sweet he sang, Ixion's wheel
And Sysiphus's stane stood still:
Nay mair; those greedy gleds, that iver
'Till nou had peck't Prometheus' Liver,
Forgat their prey, op't wide their throats,
And lent their lugs to Orpheus' notes.
Sa here, gif ye attention gi'e,
Si'k auld-warld wunders ye may see;
May see the maiden stap her wheel;
The mistress cease to turn the reel;
Lizzy, wi' laddle in her hand,
Til pot boil over, gapand stand:
Ev'n hungry Gib his speun depose
And, for a mament, spare his brose.

Let bragart England in disdain
Ha'd ilka lingo, but her a'in:
Her a'in, we wat, say what she can,
Is like her true-born Englishman,
A vile promiscuous mungrel seed
Of Danish, Dutch, an' Norman breed,
An' prostituted, since, to a'
The jargons on this earthly ba'!
Bedek't, 'tis true, an' made fu' smart
Wi' mekil learning, pains an' art;
An' taught to baik, an' befige, an' bou
As dogs an' dancin'-masters do:
Wi' fardit cheeks an' pouder't hair,
An' brazen confidential stare —
While ours, a blate an' bashfu' maid
Conceals her blushes wi' her plaid;
And is unwillan' to display
Her beuties in the face o' day.

Bot strip them baith — an' see wha's shape
Has least the semblance of an ape?
Wha's lim's are straughtest? Wha can sheu
The whiter skin, an' fairer heu;
An' whilk, in short, is the mair fit
To gender genuine manly wit?
I'll pledge my pen, you'll judgment pass
In favor of the Scottis lass.