But to begin, for though 'tis rather long,
My poem I'll comprise into twelve stanzas,
Or fourteen at the furthest, if my song
Don't run to twenty—I'll offend no man, sirs,
If I can help it. So now I'm along
The road, and beg you'll notice these two lancers,
Who, on the backs of horses full of mettle
Hold a dispute, which we'll leave them to settle,
While you go with me, reader, kind and good,
To a small tributary stream from Tweed,