D M

-e has been lang our fae, -Il has wrought us meikle wae, And that curs'd rascal ca'd Me,

And baith the S-s,

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

Auld Ww lang has hatch'd mischief,
We thought ay death wad bring relief,
But he has gotten, to our grief,

Ane to succeed him.

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

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

There S-h for ane,

I doubt he's but a grey nick quill,

An that ye'll fin'.

O! a' ye flocks, o'er a' the hills,
By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
Come join your counsels and your skills,
To cowe the lairds,
And get the brutes the power themsels,
To choose their Herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
And Learning in a woody dance,
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,

Be anish'd o'er the sea to France;
Let him bark there.

Then Shaw's and D'rymple's eloquence. M'--l's close, nervous excellence,

M'Q's pathetic manly sense,

And guid M1

Wi' S-th, wha thro' the heart can glance,
May a' pack aff.

THE CALF.

TO THE REV. MR,

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.

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
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!"

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.

O THOU, wha in the heavens dost dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best thysel',
Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell,
A' for thy glory,

And no for ony guid or ill

They've done afore thee!

I bless and praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here afore thy sight,

For gifts an' grace,

A burnin an' a shinin light,

To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get such exaltation?
I, wha deserve sic just damnation,
For broken laws,

Five thousand years 'fore my creation
Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plunged me in hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin lake,

Wha damned Devils roar and yell,
Chain'd to a staik.

Yet I am here a chosen sample,
To show thy grace is great an' ample;
I'm here a pillar in thy temple,

Strong as a rock,

A guide, a buckler, an' example

To a' thy flock.

OL-d thou kens what zeal I bear, When drinkers drink, and swearers swear, And singin there, and dancin here,

Wi' great an' sma':

For I am keepit by thy fear,

Free frae them a'.

But yet, O L-d! confess I must,
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust,
An' sometimes too, wi' warldly trust
Vile self gets in;

But thou remembers we are dust,
Defil'd in sin.

Besides, I farther maun allow,
Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow;
But L-d, that Friday I was fou,

When I came near her

Or else, thou kens, thy servant true

Wad ne'er hae steer'd her.

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn,
Beset thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre high and proud should turn,
Cause he's sae gifted,

If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne,
Until thou lift it.

L-d bless thy chosen in this place,
For here thou hast a chosen race;
But G-d confound their stubborn face,
And blast their name,
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace,
An' public shame.

L-d, mind G-n H-n's deserts, He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at carts, Yet has sae monie takin arts,

Wi'grit an' sma',

Frae G-d's ain priest the people' hearts He steals awa.'

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar

O' laughin at us;

Curse thou his basket and his store,

Kail an' potatoes.

L-d hear my earnest cry an' pray'r, Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr;

Thy strong right hand, L-d make it bare,
Upo' their heads,

L-d weigh it down, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.

OL-d my G-d that glib-tongu'd A-
My very heart an' saul are quakin,
VOL. II-H