In Kilmarnock's print, a treasure lies,
A first edition, where history sighs,
From eighteen eighty-six, its verses flow,
Robert Burns’ heart, in dialect aglow.

Poems Chiefly In The Scottish Dialect,
Whispers of love, and nature’s effect,
Expected to fetch a princely sum,
Fifty to sixty thousand—oh, how it’ll hum!

Once just six hundred, a modest start,
Three shillings it cost, a work of pure art,
Yet within a month, the copies all gone,
Burns' voice, like a lark, sung sweet at dawn.

“To A Mouse” and “The Twa Dogs” share,
Stories of life, in the Scottish air,
At twenty-seven, with passion he wrote,
A legacy penned in each heartfelt note.

Now just eighty-eight copies remain,
A glimpse of the past, a poet’s refrain,
As the auction approaches, the whispers grow loud,
For the magic of Burns, we all stand so proud.