My Musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet
On gown, an' ban', an' douce black-bonnet, [sedate]
Is grown right eerie now she's done it, [scared]
Lest they should blame her,
An' rouse their holy thunder on it,
And anathém her. [curse]

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,
That I, a simple country bardie,
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,
Wha, if they ken me,
Can easy, wi' a single wordie,
Lowse hell upon me. [Loose]

But I gae mad at their grimaces,
Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces,
Their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces,
Their raxin' conscience, [elastic]
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces
Waur nor their nonsense. [Worse than]

There's Gau'n, misca't waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast
Than mony scores as guid's the priest [good as]
Wha sae abus'd him:
An' may a bard no crack his jest
What way they've used him? [On the fashion]

See him the poor man's friend in need,