'Weel done, Cutty Sark!'

Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie.

Ah, Tam! Ah! Tam! Thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast you like a herrin!

As Tammie glow'red, amazed, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious.

Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a lo'esome wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

It is a happy thing that there is no royal road to poetry. The world should know by this time that one cannot reach Parnassus except by flying thither.