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

There's S-h for ane, I doubt he's but a grey nick quill,

And that ye'll fin'.

O! a' ye flocks, o'er a' the hills,
By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
Come join your counsel and your skills,

To cow 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 banish'd o'er the sea to France,

Let him bark there.

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence,
Mll's close nervous excellence,
M Q-e's pathetic manly sense,

And guid Mh, Wi' $th wha thro' the heart can glance,

May a' pack aff.






O GOUDIE! terror of the Whigs,
Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs,
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,

Girnin' looks back,
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues

Wad seize you quick.

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,
Waes me ! she's in a sad condition;
Fy, bring Black Jock, her state physician,

To see her w-t-er ;
Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion

She'll ne'er get better.

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Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
But now she's got an unco ripple,
Haste, gie her name up i' the chappel,

Nigh unto death;
See how she fetches at the thrapple,

An' gasps for breath.

Enthusiasm 's past redemption,
Gaen in a galloping consumption,
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption,

Will ever mend her,
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption

Death soon will end her.

'Tis you and Taylor * are the chief, Wha are to blame for this mischief; But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave,

A toom tar barrel, An' twa red peats wad send relief,

An' end the quarrel.

* Dr Taylor of Norwich.






[This Poem has been printed in the Liverpool Edition, but

is here given with additions from a manuscript of the Author. The lines added are printed in Italics.] ·

Sir, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu' list
O'gudes and gear, an' a'

an' a' my graith,
To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith.

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
I have four brutes o' gallant mettle,
As ever drew afore a pettle.

My * Lan-afore's a gude auld has-been, An' wight an’ wilfu' a' his days been. My Lan'-ahin 's a weel gaun fillie, That aft has borne me hame frae Killief, An' your auld burrough mony a time, In days when riding was nae crimeBut ance whan in my wooing pride I like a blockhead boost to ride The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, (L-d pardon a' my sins an' that to !) I play'd my.fillie sic a shavie, She's a' bedevild wi' the spavie. My $ Furr-ahin 's a wordy beast, As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd.— The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, A d-n'd red wud Kilburnie blastie; Foreby a Cowt o' Cowt's the wale, As ever ran afore a tail. If he be spar'd to be a beast, He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least. Wheel carriages I ha'e but few, Three carts, an' twa are feckly new;

* The fore horse on the left-hand in the plough. + The hindmost on the left-hand in the plough.

The same on the right-hand in the plough.

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