To Alexander Findlater

Ellisland, Saturday morning Dear Sir, 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, & 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 was 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 week-knooz'd hurdies. Nae cursed CLERICAL EXCISE 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 Robert Burns