Frae twenty-four to five-and-forty,
My muse was neither sweer nor dorty,
My Pegasus would break his tether,
E'en at the shagging of a feather,
And through ideas scour like drift,
Streaking his wings up to the lift;
Then, then my soul was in a low,
That gart my members safely row;
But eild and judgment 'gin to say,
Let be your sangs, and learn to pray.