Page:Underwoods, Stevenson, 1887.djvu/135

Rh "Weel," an' says you, wi' heavin' breist,

"Sae far, sae guid, but what's the neist?

Yearly we gaither to the feast,

A' hopefü' men—

Yearly we skelloch 'Hang the beast—

Nae sang again!'"

My lads, an' what am I to say?

Ye shürely ken the Muse's way:

Yestreen, as gleg's a tyke—the day,

Thrawn like a cuddy:

Her conduc', that to her's a play,

Deith to a body.

Aft whan I sat an' made my mane,

Aft whan I laboured burd-alane,

Fishin' for rhymes an' findin' nane,

Or nane were fit for ye—

Ye judged me cauld's a chucky stane—

No car'n' a bit for ye!