Our ancestors lived unca lang in the dark;
Their wisdom was folly, their sense melancholy
When compared wi' sic wonderfu' modern wark.
Neist o' rags, bags, and size then, let no one despise them,
Without them whar wad a' our paper come frae?
The dark flood o' ink too, I'm given to think too,
Could as ill be wanted at this time o' day.
The Quill is a queer thing, a cheap and a dear thing,
A weak-lookin' object, but gude kens how strang,
Sometimes it is ceevil, sometimes it's the deevil.