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M********, R*****, are the boys,
That Heresy can torture;
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse,
And cow 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 with their din,
Or Patronage intrusion,

We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin,
We'll rin them aff in fusion

Like oil, some day.

* New-light is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously.

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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,

Though 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.



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!

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear,

Your but-and-ben 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,

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!



TO THE Deil.

O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
That led th' embattl'd Seraphim to war.


O THOU! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

Clos'd under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor



Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,

E'en to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; Far kend and noted is thy name;

An' tho'


lowin heugh's thy hame,

Thou travels far;

An' faith thou's neither lag nor lame,

Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin;
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,
Tirling the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend Graunie say,

In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray,

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rers way,

Wi' eldrich croon.


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