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But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.

For a' that, &c.

IV.

In raptures sweet this hour we meet,
Wi' mutual love and a' that;
But for how lang the fie may stang,
Let inclination law that.

For a' that, &c.

V.

vies on o bied & am
Their tricks and craft have put me daft,

They've ta'en me in, and a' that;
But clear your decks, and here's the sex!
I like the jads for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

And twice as muckle's a' that;
My dearest bluid, to do them gude,
They're welcome till't for a' that.

RECITATIVO.

So sung the bard, and Nansie's wa's

Shook wi' a thunder of applause,

Re-echo'd frae each mouth:

They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their duds,

They scarcely left to co'er their fuds,

To quench their lowan drouth.

Then owre again, the jovial thrang
The poet did request,

To lowse his pack, and wale a sang, A

A ballad o' the best.

He, rising, rejoicing

Between his twa Deborahs,

Looks round him, and found them
Impatient for the chorus.

AIR.

Tune" JOLLY MORTALS FILL YOUR GLASSES."

I.

See the smoking bowl before us,
Mark our jovial ragged ring!
Round and round take up the chorus,
And in raptures let us sing.

CHORUS.

A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.

II.

What is title? what is treasure?
What is reputation's care?

If we lead a life of pleasure,
'Tis no matter how or where.
A fig, &c.

III.

With the ready trick and fable,

Round we wander all the day;

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Does the train-attended carriage
Through the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love?

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THE

KIRK'S ALARM.*

A SATIRE.

ORTHODOX, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox. Let me sound an alarm to your conscience: There's a heretic blast, has been blawn in the wast, That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Dr Mac,+ Dr Mac, you should stretch on a rack,
To strike evil doers wi' terror;

To join faith and sense upon ony pretence,
Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;

Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief,
And orator Bob‡ is its ruin.

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child,

And your

life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye, For preaching that three's ane and twa.

* This Poem was written a short time after the publication of Dr M'Gill's Essay.

+ Dr M Gill.

VOL. III.

R

-t A-k-n.

§ Mr D-m-le.

Rumble John,* Rumble John, mount the steps wi'

a groan,

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd;

Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like adle, And roar every note of the damn'd.

Simper James,† Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames,

There's a holier chace in your view ;

I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead, For puppie's like you there's but few.

Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, are ye herding the penny,

Unconscious what evils await;

Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul,
For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld,there's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the Clerk;

Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Davic Bluster,|| Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do muster,

The corps is no nice of recruits :

Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast, If the ass was the king of the brutes.

Mr R-ss-ll.

+ Mr MK-y.

Mr My

§ Mr A-d.

Mr Gt of O-l-me,

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