And gloriously she 'll whang her
Wï' pith this day.
Come, let a proper text be read,
And touch it aff wi' vigour,
How graceless Ham leugh at his dad,
Which made Canaan a nigger;
Or Phinehas drove the murdering blade,
With w- abhorring rigour ;
Or Zipporah, the scauldin' jad,
Was like a bluidy tiger
I' the 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;
And gie him owre the flock to feed,
And punish each transgression;
Especial, rams that cross the breed,
Gie them sufficient threshin'
Spare them nae day.
Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail,
And toss thy horns fu' canty;
Nae mair thou 'll rowte out-owre the dale,
Because thy pasture's scanty;
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail
Shall fill thy crib in plenty,
And runts o' grace the pick and wale,
No gien by way o' dainty,
Nae mair by Babel's 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,
And o'er the thairms be tryin';
Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep,
And a' like lamb-tails flyin'
Fu' fast this day.
Lang, Patronage, wi' rod o' airn,
Has shored the Kirk's undoin',
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,
Has proven to its ruin :
Our patron, honest man! Glen^airn,
He saw mischief was brewi.,
And like a godly élect bairn
He's waled us out a true ane,
And sound this day.
Now, Robertson, harangue nae mair,
But steek your gab for ever;
Or try the wicked town of Ayr,
For there they'll think you clever;
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 :
And aye he catched the tither wretch,
To fry them in his caudrons :
But now his honour maun detach,
Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons,
Fast, fast this day.
See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes
She's swingein through the city:
Hark how the nine-tailed 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 he peels the skin and fell,
As ane were peelin' onions!
Now there they 're packèd aff to h—,
And banished our dominions
Henceforth this day.
Oh happy day! rejoice, rejoice!
Come bouse about the porter
Morality's demure decoys
Shall here nae mair find quarter:
Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys
That heresy can torture:
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse,
And cowe her measure shorter
By th' head some day.
Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,
And here's for a conclusion : —
To every New Light mother's son,
From this time forth, Confusion !
If mair they deave us wi' their din,
Or Patronage intrusion,
We'll light a spunk, and every
We'll rin them aff in fusion,
Like oil some day.
AN ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE
RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS.
"My son, these maxims make a rule,
And lump them aye thegither:
The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
The Rigid Wise anither.
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight
May hae some pyles o' caff in;
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight
For random fits o' daffin."
SOLOMON.-Eccles. vii. 16.
OH ye wha are sae guid yoursel',
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your neebour's fauts and folly :
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi' store o' water,
The heaped happer's ebbing still,
And still the clap plays clatter:
Hear me, ye venerable core,
As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door
For glaikit Folly's portals!
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences,
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.
Ye see your state wi' theirs compared,
And shudder at the niffer :
But cast a moment's fair regard,
What maks the mighty differ?
Discount what scant occasion gave
That purity ye pride in,
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)
Your better art o' hiding.
Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop,
What ragings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop;
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o' baith to sail,
It makes an unco lee-way.
See Social Life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrified, they 're grown
Debauchery and Drinking.
Oh would they stay to calculate
Th' eternal consequences !
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