There is another verse, which I found at  Planning A Burns Supper

Tho' he was but a plooman lad,
And wore the hodden grey
Auld Scotia's dearest bard was bred
Aneath a roof o' strae;
To pluck the strings o' Scotia's lyre
It needs no classic lore
But mither wit and native fire
They make the bosom grow.

Megan: What tune is it sung to; For A' That by any chance?

Malcolm