Wad think I learn’d the hale o’t in a week.
Weel up in Scotch, I set mysel’ to wark
To strip the Poet to his very sark,
An’ gie the warld a pictur’ o’ the Man
An’ a’ his Doin’s—on the cut-throat plan.
My book, gat up regairdless o’ expense,
Was hailed the book by ilka man o’ sense;
Some “half-read” gowks ayont the Tweed micht sneer,
An’ name mysel’ in words no’ fit to hear;
I only leuch. The man himsel’ was deid—