To grace his lay.
To hear thy song, all ranks desire;
Sae well thou strik’st the dormant lyre.
Apollo, wi’ poetic fire,
Thy breast did warm,
An’ critics silently admire
Thy art to charm.
Cæsar an’ Luath weel can speak;
’Tis pity e’er their gabs should steek:
They into human nature keek,