Our Lucky humbly begs
Ye ‘ll prie her caller, new-laid eggs:
Lord grant the Cock may keep his legs,
Aboon the Chuckies;
And wi’ his kittle, forket clegs,
Claw weel their dockies!

Had Fate that curst me in her ledger,
A Poet poor, and poorer Gager,
Created me that feather’d Sodger,
A generous Cock,
How I wad craw and strut and roger
My kecklin Flock!

Buskit wi’ mony a bien, braw feather,
I wad defied the warst o’ weather:
When corn or bear I could na gather
To gie my burdies;
I’d treated them wi’ caller heather,
And weel-kooz’d hurdies.

On honest Nature’s laws and ties;
Free as the vernal breeze that flies
At early day,
We’d tasted Nature’s richest joys,
But stint or stay.--------

But as this subject ‘s something kittle,
Our wisest way ‘s to say but little;
And while my Muse is at her mettle,
I am, most fervent,
Or may I die upon a whittle!
Your Friend and Servant--------
Robt. Burns.