The Poet's Wish: An Ode

Frae great Apollo, poet say,
What is thy wish, — what wadst thou hae, —
When thou bows at his shrine?
Not carse o' Gowrie's fertile field;
Nor a' the flocks the Grampians yield,
That are baith sleek and fine;
Not costly things brought frae afar,
As ivory, pearl, and gems;
Nor those fair straths that water'd are
With Tay and Tweed's smooth streams,
Which gentily, and daintily,
Pare down the flow'ry braes,
As greatly, and quietly,
They wimple to the seas.

Whaever by his canny fate
Is master of a good estate,
That can ilk thing afford,
Let him enjoy't withouten care,
And with the wale of curious fare
Cover his ample board.
Much dawted by the gods is he,
Wha to the Indian plain
Successfu' ploughs the wally sea,
And safe returns again,
With riches, that hitches
Him high aboon the rest
Of sma' fowk, and a' fowk,
That are wi' poortith prest.

For me, I can be well content
To eat my bannock on the bent,
And kitchen't wi' fresh air;
Of lang-kail I can make a feast,
And cantily had up my crest,
And laugh at dishes rare.
Nought frae Apollo I demand,
But through a lengthened life,
My outer fabric firm may stand,
And soul clear without strife.
May he then, but gie then,
Those blessings for my skair;
I'll fairly, and squairly,
Quite a', and seek nae mair.