The Oubit

It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang;
A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang—
“My Minnie bad me bide at hame until I won my wings;
I shew her soon my soul's aboon the warks o' creeping things.”

This feckless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the linn,
A swirl o' wind cam' doun the glen, and blew that oubit in:
O when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose,
And tigg'd him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail and toes.

Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor oubit's shame;
Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame
O haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the Muses woo;
For critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak' their meals o' you
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