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Robert Burns - Epistle To J. Lapraik (excerpt)
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I am nae poet, in a sense, 
    But just a rhymer like by chance,
    An` hae to learning nae pretence;
        Yet what the matter?
    Whene`er my Muse does on me glance,
        I jingle at her.

    Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
    And say, "How can you e`er propose,
    You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
       To mak a sang?"
   But, by your leave, my learned foes,
       Ye`re maybe wrang.

   What`s a` your jargon o` your schools,
   Your Latin names for horns an` stools?
   If honest nature made you fools,
       What sairs your grammars?
   Ye`d better taen up spades and shools,
       Or knappin-hamm ers.

   A set o` dull, conceited hashes
   Confuse their brains in college classes!
   They gang in stirks and come out asses,
       Plain truth to speak;
   An` syne they think to climb Parnassus
       By dint o` Greek!

   Gie me ae spark o` Nature`s fire,
   That`s a` the learnin` I desire;
   Then, tho` I drudge thro` dub an` mire
       At pleugh or cart,
   My Muse, though hamely in attire,
       May touch the heart….
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