’T is he fulfils great Nature's plan,
And none but he !"

Oh mandate glorious and divine!
The followers o' the ragged Nine,
Poor thoughtless devils! yet may shine
In glorious light,

While sordid sons o' Mammon's line
Are dark as night.

Though here they scrape, and squeeze, and growl,

Their worthless nievefu' of a soul

May in some future carcass howl,
The forest's fright;

Or in some day-detestin' owl

May shun the light.

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys,
In some mild sphere,

Still closer knit in friendship's ties,
Each passing year!

EPISTLE TO JOHN GOUDIE OF KILMARNOCK,

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS.

OH, Goudie! terror of the Whigs,

Dread of black coats and reverend wigs,

Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girnin', looks back,

Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues
Wad seize you quick.

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,
Wae's me! she's in a sad condition;
Fie! bring Black Jock, her state-physician,
To see her water.

Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
But now she's got an unco ripple ;
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel,
Nigh unto death;

See, how she fetches at the thrapple,
And gasps for breath.

Enthusiasm's past redemption,
Gane in a galloping consumption,
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
Will ever mend her.

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption
Death soon will end her.

'Tis you and Taylor are the chief
Wha are to blame for this mischief,
But gin the L-'s ain fouk gat leave,
A toom tar-barrel

And twa red peats wad send relief,
And end the quarrel.

THE TWA HERDS; OR, THE HOLY TULZIE.

OH a' ye pious godly flocks,

Weel fed on pastures orthodox,

Wha now will keep ye frae the fox,
Or worrying tykes,

Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks,
About the dikes?

The twa best herds in a' the wast,
That e'er gae Gospel-horn a blast,
These five-and-twenty simmers past,
Oh dool to tell,

Hae had a bitter black outcast

Atween themsel'.

Oh, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell,
How could you raise so vile a bustle!
Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle,
And think it fine:

The L-'s cause ne'er got sic a twistle
Sin' I hae min’.

Oh, sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit,
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,
Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit,
To wear the plaid,

But by the brutes themselves eleckit,
To be their guide.

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank,
Sae hale and hearty every shank !

Nae poisoned sour Arminian stank

He let them taste,

Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank
Oh sic a feast!

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, Weel kenn'd his voice through a' the wood, He smelt their ilka hole and road,

Baith out and in,

And weel he liked to shed their bluid,
And sell their skin.

What herd like Russell telled his tale,
His voice was heard through muir and dale,
He kenn'd the L—'s sheep, ilka tail,
O'er a' the height,

And saw gin they were sick or hale,
At the first sight.

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,
Or nobly fling the Gospel club,
And New-Light herds could nicely drub,
Or pay their skin;

Could shake them o'er the burning dub,
Or heave them in.

Sic twa-oh, do I live to see 't,
Sic famous twa should disagreet,
And names like villain, hypocrite,
Ilk ither gi'en,

While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite,
Say neither 's liein'!

A' ye wha tent the Gospel fauld,
There's Duncan, deep, and Peebles, shaul,
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,
We trust in thee,

That thou wilt work them, het and cauld,
Till they agree.

Consider, sirs, how we 're beset;
There's scarce a new herd that we get,
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set
I winna name ;

I hope frae heaven to see them yet
In fiery flame.

Dalrymple has been lang our fae,
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae,
And that cursed rascal ca'd M'Quhae,
And baith the Shaws,

That aft hae made us black and blae,
Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Wodrow lang has hatched mischief, We thought aye death wad bring relief, But he has gotten, to our grief,

Ane to succeed him,

A chield wha 'll soundly buff our beef;
I meikle dread him.

And monie a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel,
Forby turn-coats amang oursel';

There's Smith for ane,