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Your pity I will not implore,

For pity ye have nane;
Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er,

And mercy's day is gaen.

But hear me, Sir, de'il as ye are,

Look something to your credit ; A coof like him wou'd stain your name,

If it were kent ye did it.




Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John Knox,

Let me sound an alarm to your conscience; There's a heretic blast has been blawn i' the wast,

That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Dr Mac †, Dr Mac, you should stretch on a rack,

To strike evil doers wi' terror;
To join faith and sense upon ony pretence,

Is heretic, damnable error.

* This Poem was written a short time after the publication of Dr M Gill's Essay.

+ Dr MG-.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare,

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ;
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief,

And orator Bob * is its ruin.

Drymple mild t, Drymple mild, tho’ your heart's

like a child, And your

life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye,

For preaching that three 's ane and twa.

Rumble John I, Rumble John, mount the steps wi'

a groan, Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd; Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like adle,

And roar every note of the damn'd.

Simper James |, Simper James, leave the fair Killie

dames, There's a holier chace in your view; I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead,

For puppies like you there's but few.

# MrR-II.

* R--An. + Dr D e,

| Mr

Singet Sawney *, Signet Sawney, are ye herding the

penny, Unconscious what evils await, Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul,

For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld f, Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the

fauld, A tod meikle waur than the Clerk ; Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death,

And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

The corps

Davie Bluster I, Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye

do muster, is no nice of recruits

; Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might

boast, If the ass was the king of the brutes.

Jamy Goose § Jamy Goose, ye ha'e made but toom

roose, In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;

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But the Doctor's your mark, for the L-d's holy ark

He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't.

Poet Willie *, Poet Willie, gi' the Doctor a volley,

Wi’ your liberty's chain and your wit; O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride,

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh—.

Andro Goukt, Andro Gouk, ye may slander the

book, And the book not the war, let me tell

ye; Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig,

And ye'll hae a calf's head o'sma' value.

Barr Steennie ț, Barr Steennie, what mean ye? what

mean ye? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,

ha'e some pretence to havins and sense, Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

Ye may

Irvine sideş, Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock pride,

Of manhood but sma' is your share;

* Mr PS, A-r. + Dr A. M-1. #MrS--n

Y-, B-r. Mr ShG-.


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