Swift, Thomson, Addison, an’ Young
Made Pindus echo to their tongue,
In hopes to please a learned age;
But Doctor Johnston, in a rage,
Unto posterity did shew
Their blunders great, their beauties few.
But now he’s dead, we weel may ken;
For ilka dunce maun hae a pen,
To write in hamely, uncouth rhymes;
An’ yet forsooth they please the times.