The Muse Dismissed
Be hush'd my Muse, ye ken the morn
Begins the shearing o' the corn,
Whar knuckles monie a risk maun run,
An' monie a trophy's lost an' won,
Whar sturdy boys wi' might and main
Shall camp, till wrists an' thumbs they strain,
While pithless, pantin' wi' the heat,
They bathe their weazen'd pelts in sweat
To gain a sprig o' fading fame,
Before they taste the dear-bought cream—
But bide ye there, my pens an' papers,
For I maun up, an' to my scrapers—
Yet, min', my lass— ye maun return
This very night we cut the churn.