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How would his Highland lag been nobler fir'd,
And ev'n bis matchless hand with finer touch inspir’d!
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd,
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ;
Harmonious concert rung in ev'ry part,
While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart.

The genius of the Stream in front appears,
A venerable Chief advanc'd in years :
His hoary head with water lilies crown'd,
His manly leg with garter tangle bound.
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring,
Sweet female Beauty hand-in-hand with Spring ;
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy,
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye:
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding corn ;
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show,
By Hospitality with cloudless brow.
Next follow'd Courage, with his martial stride,
From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide;
Benevolence, with mild benignant air,
A female form, came from the tow’rs of Stair:
Learning and Worth in equal measures rode
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode ;
Last, white-rob’d Peace, crown’d with a hazle

To rustic Agriculture did bequeath
The broken iron instruments of death;
At sight of whom our sprites forgat their kindling




For sense they littlc owe to frugal Hear'n,
To please the mob they hide the little giv'o.


KILMARNOCK wabsters, fidge an’ claw,

An' pour your creeshie nations ; An' ye wba leather rax an' draw,

Of a'denominations ;

Swift to the Laigh Kirk, ane an'a',

An' there tak up your stations ; Then aff to B-gb-'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 0******* aft made her yell,

An' R***** sair misca'd her;
This day M"******* takes the flail,

An' he's the boy will blaud her!
He'll clap a shangan on her tail,
An' set the bairns to daub 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.
Come let a proper text be read,

An' touch it aff wi' vigour,
Pow graceless Ham+ leugh at bis Dad,

Which made Capaan a niger:
Or Phineast drove the maudering blade,

Wi' wb-re-abborring rigour;
Or Zipporah, the scaulding jade,
Was like a bluidy tiger

l'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;

• Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the ad mission of the late severend and worthy Mr, L, to the Laigh Kirk

+ Genesis, ch. ix, ver. 22. # Numbers, ch. xxv. ver. 2. Ø Exodus, ch. iv. ver. 25.

And gie him o'er the flock, to feed,

And punish each transgression; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin,

Spare them na 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 piek an' whale,
No' gi'en by way o' dainty,

But ilka day.
Na mair by Babel's 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 w

wheep, An'a' like lamb-tails flyin

Fu’ fast this day! Lang Patronage, wi' rod o’airn,

Has shor'd the kirk's undoin,
As lately F-nw-ck, sair forfairn,

Has proven to its ruin:
Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,

He saw mischief was brewin;
And like a godly elect bairn,
He's wal'd us out a true ane,

And sound this day. Now R****** ha rangue 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 N-th-rt-n repair,
And turn a carpet weaver

Af-band this day.

M***** and you were just a match,

We never bad sic twa drones;
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,

Just like a winkin baudrons :
And ay' he catch'd the tither wretch,

To fry them in his caudrons :
But now his honour maun detach,
Wi' a' bis brimstone squadrons,

Fast, fast this day.
See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes

She's swingeip thro' the city;
Hark! how the nine-tail'd cat she plays !

I vow its unco pretty :
There, Learning, with his Greekish face,

Grupts out soine Latin ditty ;
And Common-Sense is gaun, she says,
To mak to Jamie Beattie

Her plaint this day.
But there's Morality hircsel,

Embracing all opinions ;
Hear, how he gies the tither yell,

Between his twa companions ;
See, how he peels the skin au' fell,

As ane were peeling opions !
Now there they're packed 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 ;
M********, R*****, are the boys,

That heresy can torture;
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse,
And cow her measure shorter

By th’ head some day.
Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,

And here's for a conclusion,
To ev'ry New Light* mother's son,

From this tine forth, confusion : • New Light is a cant phrase, in the west of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor, of Norwich, has defended so strenuously.

If mair they deave us with 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.




And they shall go forth, and grow up like calves of the stall.

Right, sir! your text I'll prove it true,

Though heretics may laugh ;
For instance; there's yoursel just now,

God knows, an unco calf!
And should some patron be so kind,

As bless you wi' a kirk,
I doubt na, sir, but then we'll find

Ye're still as great a stirk.
But, if the lover's raptur'd hour

Shall ever be your lot,
Forbid it, ev'ry heav'nly pow'r,

You e'er should be a stot!
Though, when some kind connubial dear

Your but-and-ben adoros,
The like has been that you may wear

A noble head of horns.
And in your lug, most rev'rend James,

To hear you roar and rowte,
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims

To rank amang the nowte.
And when ye're number'd wi’the dead,

Below a grassy hillock,
Wi' justice they may mark your head-

• Here lies a famous Bullock!'

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