was it for this, wi' cannie care,

thou bure the bard through many a shire?

at howes, or hillocks never stumbled,

and late or early never grumbled?—

o had i power like inclination,

i'd heeze thee up a constellation,

to canter with the sagitarre,

or loup the ecliptic like a bar;

or turn the pole like any arrow;

or, when auld phoebus bids good-morrow,

down the zodiac urge the race,

and cast dirt on his godship's face;

for i could lay my bread and kail

he'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail.—

wi' a' this care and a' this grief,

and sma', sma' prospect of relief,

and nought but peat reek i' my head,

how can i write what ye can read?—

tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' june,

ye'll find me in a better tune;

but till we meet and weet our whistle,

tak this excuse for nae epistle.

robert burns.