I am nae poet, in a sense, <br /> But just a rhymer like by chance, <br /> An' hae to learning nae pretence; <br /> Yet what the matter? <br /> Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, <br /> I jingle at her. <br /> <br /> Your critic-folk may cock their nose, <br /> And say, "How can you e'er propose, <br /> You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, <br /> To mak a sang?" <br /> But, by your leave, my learned foes, <br /> Ye're maybe wrang. <br /> <br /> What's a' your jargon o' your schools, <br /> Your Latin names for horns an' stools? <br /> If honest nature made you fools, <br /> What sairs your grammars? <br /> Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, <br /> Or knappin-hammers. <br /> <br /> A set o' dull, conceited hashes <br /> Confuse their brains in college classes! <br /> They gang in stirks and come out asses, <br /> Plain truth to speak; <br /> An' syne they think to climb Parnassus <br /> By dint o' Greek! <br /> <br /> Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, <br /> That's a' the learnin' I desire; <br /> Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire <br /> At pleugh or cart, <br /> My Muse, though hamely in attire, <br /> May touch the heart....<br /><br />Robert Burns<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/epistle-to-j-lapraik-excerpt/
