My blessings on ye, honest wife!I ne’er was here before;Ye’ve wealth o’ gear for spoon and knife–Heart could not wish for more.Heav’n keep you clear o’ sturt and strife,Till far ayont fourscore,And while I toddle on thro’ life,I’ll ne’er gae by your door! 1787

O Thou whom Poetry abhors, Whom Prose has turned out of doors, Heard’st thou yon groan?–proceed no further, ‘Twas laurel’d Martial calling murther.