A ploughman chiel, Rab Burns his name,
Pretends to write; an’ thinks nae shame
To souse his sonnets on the court;
An’ what is strange, they praise him for’t.
Even folks, wha’re of the highest station,
Ca’ him the glory of our nation.
But what is more surprising still,
A milkmaid must tak up her quill;
An’ she will write, shame fa’ the rabble!
That think to please wi’ ilka bawble.