Poems, by G. Hughes. With additions, Zväzok 1

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Strana iii - I am nae Poet, in a sense, But just a Rhymer, like, by chance, An' hae to learning nae pretence, Yet, what the matter ? Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. Your critic-folk may cock their nose, And say, ' How can you e'er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang ?' But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're maybe wrang.
Strana iii - Your critic-folk may cock their nose, And say 'How can you e'er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang?' But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're maybe wrang. What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools; If honest Nature made you fools, What sairs your grammars?

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