’T is he fulfils great Nature's plan, Oh mandate glorious and divine! While sordid sons o' Mammon's line Though here they scrape, and squeeze, and growl, Their worthless nievefu' of a soul May in some future carcass howl, Or in some day-detestin' owl May shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, Still closer knit in friendship's ties, 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, Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, See, how she fetches at the thrapple, Enthusiasm's past redemption, Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption 'Tis you and Taylor are the chief And twa red peats wad send relief, 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 wha will tent the waifs and crocks, The twa best herds in a' the wast, Hae had a bitter black outcast Atween themsel'. Oh, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, The L-'s cause ne'er got sic a twistle Oh, sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit, But by the brutes themselves eleckit, What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank, Nae poisoned sour Arminian stank He let them taste, Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank 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, What herd like Russell telled his tale, And saw gin they were sick or hale, He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, Could shake them o'er the burning dub, Sic twa-oh, do I live to see 't, While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite, A' ye wha tent the Gospel fauld, That thou wilt work them, het and cauld, Consider, sirs, how we 're beset; I hope frae heaven to see them yet Dalrymple has been lang our fae, That aft hae made us black and blae, 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; And monie a ane that I could tell, There's Smith for ane, |