Curst Common-sense, that imp o' hell,
Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder;
But Oliphant aft made her yell,
An' Russel sair misca'd her;
This day M'Kinlay taks the flail,
An' he's the boy will blaud3 her!
He'll clap a shangan1 on her tail,
An' set the bairns to daud3 her
Wi' dirt this day.
Mak haste an' turn king David owre,
An' lilt wi' holy clangor;
O' double verse come gie us four,
An' skirl up the Bangor :
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure,
Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,
For Heresy is in her pow'r,
And gloriously she'll whang her
Wi' pith this day.
Come let a proper text be read,
An' touch it off wi' vigour,
How graceless Ham' leugh1o at his Dad,
Which made Canaan a niger :11
Or Phineas12 drove the murdering blade
Wi' w-e-abhorring rigour;
Or Zipporah,13 the scauldin' jade,
Was like a bluidy tiger
I' th' Inn that day.
There, try his mettle on the creed,
And bind him down wi' caution,
That Stipend is a carnal weed
He taks but for the fashion;
An' gie him o'er the flock, to feed,
And punish each transgression;
Especial, rams that cross the breed,
Gie them sufficient threshin',
Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail,
An' toss thy horns fu' canty;
Nae mair thou'lt rowte' out-owre the dale,
Because thy pasture's scanty;
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail
Shall fill thy crib in plenty,
An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale,2
No gie'n by way o' dainty,
But ilka day.
Nae mair by Babel streams we'll weep,
To think upon our Zion;
And hing our fiddles up to sleep,
Like baby-clouts a-dryin:
Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep,3
And o'er the thairms' be tryin;
Oh rare! to see our elbucks wheep,5
And a' like lamb-tails flyin
Fu' fast this day!
Lang, Patronage, wi' rod o' airn,6
Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin,
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,
Has proven to its ruin:
Our Patron, honest man! Glencairn,
He saw mischief was brewin;
And like a godly, elect bairn,
He's wal'd' us out a true ane,
And sound this day.
Now Robinson harangue nae mair,
But steek your gab for ever:
Or try the wicked town of Ayr,
For there they'll think you
Or, nae reflection on your lear,
Ye may commence a Shaver;
Or to the Netherton repair,
And turn a Carpet-weaver
Aff-hand this day.
Mutrie and you were just a match,
We never had sic twa drones:
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,
Just like a winkin baudrons.10
And ay he catch'd the tither wretch,
To fry them in his caudrons;
But now his Honor maun detach,
Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons,
Fast, fast this day.
See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes
She's swingein thro' the city:
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays!
I vow it's unco pretty!
There Learning, with his Greekish face,
Grunts out some Latin ditty;
And Common Sense is gaun, she says,
To mak to Jamie Beattie
Her plaint this day.
But there's Morality himsel,
Embracing all opinions;
Hear, how he gies the tither yell,
Between his twa companions;
See, how she peels the skin an' fell,
As ane were peelin onions!
Now there, they're packed aff to hell,
And banish'd our dominions,
Henceforth this day.
O happy day! rejoice, rejoice!
Come bouse about the porter!
Morality's demure decoys
Shall here nae mair find quarter:
M Kinlay, Russel are the boys
That Heresy can torture;
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse1
And cowe2 her measure shorter
By th' head some day.
Come, bring the tither mutchkin3 in,
And here's, for a conclusion,
To every New Light' mother's son,
From this time forth, Confusion:
If mair they deave us with their din,
Or Patronage intrusion,
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin,
We'll rin them aff in fusion
New Light is a cant phrase, in the West of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor, of Norwich, has so strenuously defended.-R. B.
TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN, ON HIS TEXT, MALACHI, CH. IV. VER. 2.
"And they shall go forth, and grow up, like CALVES of the stall."
RIGHT, Sir! your text I'll prove it true,
Tho' Heretics may laugh;
For instance; there's yoursel just now,
God knows, an unco Calf!
And should some Patron be so kind,
As bless you wi' a kirk,
I doubt na, sir, but then we'll find,
Ye're still as great a Stirk.2
But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour
Shall ever be your lot,
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power,
You e'er should be a Stot !3
Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear,
Your But-and-ben1 adorns,
The like has been that you may wear
A noble head of horns.
And, in your lug, most reverend James,
To hear you roar and rowte,5
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims
To rank amang the Nowte."
And when ye're number'd wi' the dead,
Below a grassy hillock,
Wi' justice they may mark your head
Here lies a famous Bullock!"
1 The Poem was nearly an extemporaneous production on a wager that I would not produce a poem on the subject in a given time.-R. B.
3 An ox. 4 Kitchen and parlour.
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