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Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will allow, And
your friends they dare grant you nae mair.
Muirland Jock*, Muirland Jock, when the Ld
makes a rock To crush common sense for her sins, If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit
To confound the poor Doctor at ance.
Holy Will, † Holy Wil, there was wit i' your skull,
When ye pilfer'd the alms of the poor; The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a saint,
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.
Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp’ritual guns,
Ammunition you never can need; Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther enough, And your
skulls are storehouses o' lead.
Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelping
turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire ; Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie,
She cou'd ca' us nae waur than we are.
# Mr Sd.
+ An E-rin
TWA HERDS. *
baye pious godly flocks, Well fed on pastures orthodox, Wha now will keep you frae the fox,
Or worrying tykes, Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks,
About the dykes ?
The twa best herds in a' the wast, That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, These five and twenty summers past,
O! dool to tell, Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast
* This piece was among the first of our Author's productions which he suhmitted to the public; and was occasioned by a dispute between two Clergymen, near Kilmarnock.
O, M—y, man, and wordy R--11,
And think it fine !
Sin' I ha'e min'.
O, Sirs ! whae'er wad ha'e expekit,
To wear the plaid,
To be their guide.
What flock wi' M—y's flock could rank,
He let them taste,
O'sic a feast !
The thummart, willcat, brock and tod,
Baith out and in,
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,
And sell their skin,
What herd like Rll tell'd his tale,
O'er a' the height,
At the first sight.
He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,
their skin, Could shake them o'er the burning dub,
Or heave them in.
Sic twa, O! do I live to see 't,
Ilk ither gi'en,
Say neither's liein'.
A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld,
But chiefly thou, apostle A-d,
We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld,
Till they agree.
Consider, Sirs, how we're beset,
I winna name,
In fiery flame.
De has been lang our fae,
-S, That aft ha'e made us black and blae,
Wi' vengefu' paws.
Auld W-w lang has hatch'd mischief, We thought ay death wad bring relief, But he has gotten, to our grief,
Ane to succeed him, A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef ;
I meikle dread him.