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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.
But steek your gab for ever :
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
Aff-hand this day.
We never had sic twa drones ::
Just like a winkin baudrons :
To fry them in his caudrons :
Fast, fast this day.
She's swingein thro' the city:.
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays
I vow it's unco pretty :
Grunts out some Latin ditty ;
Her plaint this day.
Embracing all opinions ;
Between his twa companions;
As ane were peelin onions !
Henceforth this day.
Come bouse about the porter !
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.
And here's, for a conclusion,
every New Light* mother's son, From this time forth, Confusion : If mair they deave us with their din
Or Patronage intrusion,
Like oil, some day.
TO THE REV. MR
On his Text, MALACHI, ch. iv. ver. 2. “ And they shall go
“ forth, and grow up, like CALVES of the stall.”
Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true,
Though Heretics my laugh;
God knows, an unco Calf!
And should some Patron be so kind,
Ye're still as great a Stirk.
* New Light is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously.
But, if the Lover's raptur'd hot
Shall ever be your lot,
You e'er should be a Stoth
Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear,
Your but-and-ben adorns,
A noble head of horns.
And in your lug, most reverend James,
To hear you roar and rowte, Few men o sense will doubt
claims To rank amang
Below a grassy
And when ye're number'd wi' the dead,
hillock, Wi' justice they may mark your head
Here lies a famous Bullock.'
O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
TNOU! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,
Clos'd under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches !
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee;
E'en to a deil,
An' hear us squeel!
Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ;-
Thou travels far ;
Nor blate nor scaur..
Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion, For prey,
a' holes an' corners tryin :