Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird, Then you, ye auld snick-drawing dog! 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, An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scawl, But a' your doings to rehearse, Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', Some luckless hour will send him linkin', To your black pit; But faith he'll turn a corner jinkin', An' cheat you yet. 90 100 ΠΙΟ 120 But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! Still hae a stake: I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake! THE ORDINATION. KILMARNOCK Wabsters, fidge and claw, Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', An' pour divine libations For joy this day. Curst Common-sense, that imp o' hell, Mak haste an' turn king David owre, O' double verse come gie us four, 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. 1Ο 20 Come, let a proper text be read, An' touch it aff wi' vigour, Or Phineas drove the murdering blade, Or Zipporah, the scauldin jad, Was like a bluidy tiger I' th' inn that day. There try his mettle on the creed, He takes but for the fashion; Spare them nae day. Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, Nae mair thou 'lt rowte out-owre the dale, For lapfu's large o' gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale, But ilka day. Nae mair by Babel streams we'll weep, To think upon our Zion; And hing our fiddles up to sleep, Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, O rare to see our elbucks wheep, And a' like lamb-tails flyin' Fu' fast this day! бо 50 40 30 Lang patronage, wi' rod o' airn, Our patron, honest man! Glencairn, He's wal'd us out a true ane, And sound this day. Now Robertson, harangue nae mair, Aff-hand this day. Mu'trie and you were just a match, Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, But now his Honour maun detach, See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes Hark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays! There Learning, with his Greekish face, And Common-sense is gaun, she says, Her plaint this day. 70 80 90 100 110 But there's Morality himsel, Hear how he gies the tither yell, Now there, they're packèd aff to hell, Henceforth this day. O happy day! rejoice, rejoice! Shall here nae mair find quarter: Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, Like oil, some day. I 20 |