Abune some bricht rock-crystal glancin'
Amang the stanes or in the soil,
That weel repaid me for my toil.
Tae tell the truth, I didna ettle
Tae fin' sae muckle bardic metal,
Or pouch sae mony bonny gems
Amang the heather cowes an' stems
That cleed oor Scotch Parnassian mountain,
Adoon whilk rins Castalia's fountain.
It's ca'd, ye ken, the Muses' Spring,
Whaur drouthy poets drink and sing,
Ere fame or fortune's haun' ye claucht,
Ye first maun tak' a waly-waucht
O' this same sang-inspirin' water-
An' syne ye'll ryhme, an' sing, an' clatter.
A waly-waucht gat Ayrshire Rab-
It cleart his thrapple, cool't his gab,
An syne sae loud an' sweet he sang,
That a' the warl' wi' echoes rang,
Till on that kittle steed Pegasus,
He wan the tap o' mount Parnassus;
An' there he sits, an' wha wull steer him?
Nae ither singer e'er cam' near him-
Frae 'neath the yirth, or on't abune,
Nane e'er could lilt tae Rabbie's tune.
For me I ne'er cou'd fill my caup
Oot o' the spring-a wee bit drap
Was a' that e'er gade owre my weasan-
E'en noo my gab begins to geysan,
An' sae I fin' it maist expedient
That I should say yer maist obedient.