Classic Poem

I got your letter, honest cock,
And thank you for your kindly joke;
But d'ye think a saughin block
The like o' me,
Can furnish out a decent stock
O' poetrie?

Wad ye hae me be sic a fiel,
As gin I were but at the skuil,
To gather ilka rhyme or reel
That I hae scrawl'd,
An' gie them out to ony chiel,
To be o'erhawl'd?

Na, na, my lad, that winna do,
I ken the warld better now;
Whan I was young and daft like you
It might hae dane,
But near threescore wad best I trow,
Lat them alane.

Besides, I'm tauld, the singin' Lasses,
That heft sae aft about Parnassus,
Were never fond o' sober asses,
That cou'd na drink
A score or twa o' bumper glasses,
To mend their clink.

Your bucks that birl the forain berry,
Claret, and port, and sack, and sherry,
Or ev'n as muckle English perry
As they can draw;
I dinna mein them to be merry,
And lilt awa'.

But that camsteary—what-d'ye-caw't?
(I think it's genius, walie fa't,)
That helps the Poet to create
Baith form and matter,
Will never dreep frae draffy mawt,
Or bare spring water.

An' then there's that ill hadden ghaist,
That Gerard has sae finely grac'd
Wi' stately stile, and ca't her “ Taste ,”
A pox upon her,
She winna let a poor auld Priest
Gain muckle honour.

Now baith o' them's aboon my reach,
For a' that I can fraise or fleitch,
What tho' fowk says that I can preach,
Nae that dein ill,
I tell you, man, I hae na speech
For critics' skill.

It's them that fleys me wi' their taws,
Their cankart cuffs, and whitty whaws,
An' troth the carlies might hae cause,
To curse and bann,
Gin I were ane that sought applause
Frae ony man.

But now and then to spin a line
Or twa, nor fash the tunefu' nine;
I'm seir, there's nae man needs repine,
Whae'er he be,
Critic, or bard, o' hamil kine,
Or high degree.

Yet after a' I'm unco' sweir
To lat you print the idle geir
That I've made up this forty year,
And some guid mair,
Ye wadna clear the cost, I fear,
Wi' a' the ware.

But, may be, gin I live as lang,
As nae to fear the chirmin chang
Of Gosses grave, that think me wrang,
And even say't,
I may consent to lat them gang,
And tak' their fate.

Remember me to a' your frien's,
The lads like you that lie their lanes,
And them that's gotten bonny Jeans
To lie aside them,
Lang may they fitt the causey stanes,
An' guid betide them!