Maist a’ your characters of fame,
Are pure inventions.
Your dogs are baith debaters, rare,
Wi’ sense, galore, and some to spare,
While e’en the verra Brigs o’ Ayr,
Ye gar them quarrel—
Tak’ Coila ben to deck your hair
Wi’ Scottish laurel.
Yet, Robin, lad, for a’ your spite,
And taunts, and jeers, and wrangfu’ wyte,