Classic Poem

Dear Allan, with your leave, allow me
To ask you but one question civil;
Why thou 'rt a poet pray thee show me,
And not as poor as any devil?

I own your verses make me gay,
But as right poet still I doubt ye;
For we hear tell benorth the Tay,
That nothing looks like want about ye.

In answer then, attempt solution,
Why poverty torments your gang?
And by what fortitude and caution
Thou guards thee from its meagre fang?

Yours, &c.
W. L.