human
What of that bridge which, void of sense, But well supplied with impudence, Englishmen, knowing not the Guild, Thought they might have the claim to build; Till Paterson, as white as milk, As smooth as oil, as soft as silk, In solemn manner had decreed That, on the other side the Tweed, Art, born and bred and fully grown, Was with one Mylne, a man unknown? But grace, preferment, and renown Deserving, just arrived in town; One Mylne, an artist, perfect quite, Both in his own and country's right, As fit to make a bridge as he, With glorious Patavinity, To build inscriptions, worthy found To lie for ever underground.