Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
And all the soul of love they shar'd,

The raptur'd hour,

Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,
In shady bow'r;

Then you, ye auld snick-drawing dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog.

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,

(Black be you fa!)

An' gied the infant warld a shog, 'Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
'Mang better folk,
An' sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house an' hal',
While scabs an' blotches did him gall
Wi' bitter claw,

An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scawl,
Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce,
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,

Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin',
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin',

Some luckless hour will send him linkin',

To your black pit;

But faith he'll turn a corner jinkin',

An' cheat you yet.

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But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken--

Still hae a stake:

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for your sake!

THE ORDINATION.

KILMARNOCK Wabsters, fidge and claw,
An' pour your creeshie nations;
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw,
Of a' denominations;

Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a',
An' there tak up your stations;
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw,

An' pour divine libations

For joy this day.

Curst Common-sense, that imp o' hell,
Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;
But Oliphant aft made her yell,
An' Russel sair misca'd her;
This day Mackinlay takes the flail,
An' he's the boy will blaud her!
He'll clap a shangan on her tail,
An' set the bairns to daud her
Wi' dirt this day.

Mak haste an' turn king David owre,
An' lilt wi' holy clangor;

O' double verse come gie us four,
An' skirl up the Bangor:

This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure,

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,

For Heresy is in her pow'r,

And gloriously she'll whang her

Wi' pith this day.

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Come, let a proper text be read,

An' touch it aff wi' vigour,
How graceless Ham leugh at his dad,
Which made Canaan a nigger;

Or Phineas drove the murdering blade,
Wi' whore-abhorring rigour;

Or Zipporah, the scauldin jad,

Was like a bluidy tiger

I' th' inn that day.

There try his mettle on the creed,
And bind him down, wi' caution
That stipend is a carnal weed

He takes but for the fashion;
An' gie him o'er 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,
An' toss thy horns fu' canty;

Nae mair thou 'lt rowte out-owre the dale,
Because thy pasture 's scanty;

For lapfu's large o' gospel kail

Shall fill thy crib in plenty,

An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale,
No gi'en by way o' dainty,

But ilka day.

Nae mair by Babel 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';

O rare to see our elbucks wheep,

And a' like lamb-tails flyin'

Fu' fast this day!

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Lang patronage, wi' rod o' airn,
Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin',
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,
Has proven to its ruin:

Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,
He saw mischief was brewin':
An' like a godly elect bairn,

He's wal'd 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.

Mu'trie 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 catch'd 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' thro' the city;

Hark how the nine-tail'd 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.

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But there's Morality himsel,
Embracing all opinions;

Hear how he gies the tither yell,
Between his twa companions;
See how she peels the skin an' fell,
As ane were peelin onions!

Now there, they're packèd aff to hell,
And banish'd our dominions

Henceforth this day.

O happy day! rejoice, rejoice!
Come bouse about the porter!
Morality's demure decoys

Shall here nae mair find quarter:
Mackinlay, Russel, 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, ev'ry skin,
We'll rin them aff in fusion

Like oil, some day.

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