Town of Ayr, town of Ayr,
It was rash, I declare,

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

And orator Bob is its ruin,

Town of Ayr.

And orator Bob is its ruin.

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, Tho' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new-driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye,

Old Satan must have ye

For preaching that three's ane an' twa, D'rymple mild,

For preaching that three's ane an' two

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, Seize your spiritual guns, Ammunition ye never can need;

Your hearts are the stuff,

Will be powder enough,

And your skulls are a storehouse of lead,

And

Calvin's sons,

your skulls are a storehouse of lead.

Rumble John, Rumble John,

Mount the steps with a groan,

Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd ;
Then lug out your ladle,

Deal brimstone like aidle,
And roar every note o' the damn'd,

Rumble John,

And roar every note o' the damn'd.

Simper James, Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chase in your view; I'll lay on your head,

That the pack ye'll soon lead, For puppies like you there's but few, Simper James,

For puppies like you there's but few.

Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie,
Are ye herding the penny,
Unconscious what danger awaits ?
With a jump, yell, and howl,
Alarm every soul,

For Hannibal's just at your gates,
Singet Sawnie,

For Hannibal's just at your gates,

Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk,
Ye may slander the book,

And the book nought the waur-let me tell you; Tho' ye're rich and look big,

Yet lay by hat and wig,

And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value,
Andrew Gowk,

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

Poet Willie, Poet Willie,

Gie the doctor a volley,

Wi' your 'liberty's chain' and your wit :

O'er Pegasus' side,

Ye ne'er laid a stride,

Ye only stood by when he sh—,

Poet Willie,

Ye only stood by when he sh--.

Bar Steenie, Bar Steenie,
What mean ye? what mean ye?
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
may hae some pretence man,
To havins and sense man,

Ye

Wi' people that ken you nae better,
Bar Steenie,

Wi' people that ken you nae better.

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, Ye hae made but toom roose, O' hunting the wicked lieutenant; But the doctor's your mark,

For the Lord's holy ark,

He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't, Jamie Goose,

He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't.

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster,

For a saunt if ye muster,

It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits,
Yet to worth let's be just,

Royal blood ye might boast,

If the ass were the King o' the brutes,
Davie Bluster,

If the ass were the King o' the brutes.

Muirland George, Muirland George, Whom the Lord made a scourge, To claw common sense for her sins; If ill manners were wit

There's no mortal so fit,

To confound the poor doctor at ance,

Muirland George,

To confound the poor doctor at ance.

Cessnockside, Cessnockside,
Wi' your turkey-cock pride,
O' manhood but sma' is your share!
Ye've the figure, it's true,

Even our faes maun allow,

And your friends daurna say ye hae mair, Cessnockside,

And your friends daurna say ye hae mair.

Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld,
There's a tod i' the fauld,

A tod meikle waur than the clerk;
Tho' ye downa do skaith,

Ye'll be in at the death,

And if ye canna bite ye can bark,
Daddie Auld,

And if ye canna bite ye can bark.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns,

Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Tho' your Muse is a gipsy,

Yet were she even tipsy,

She could ca' us nae waur than we are,
Poet Burns,

She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

POSTSCRIPT.

Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird,
When your pen can be spared,

A copy o' this I bequeath,

On the same sicker score

I mentioned before,

To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith,

Afton's Laird,

To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith.

THE SELKIRK GRACE.

SOME hae meat, and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it ;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thanket.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF PEG NICHOLSON.

PEG Nicholson was a gude bay mare,
As ever trode on airn;

But now she's floating down the Nith,
An' past the mouth o' Cairn.

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare,
An' rode thro' thick an' thin;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
An' wanting even the skin.

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare,
An' ance she bare a priest;

But now she's floating down the Nith,
For Solway fish a feast.

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare,
An' the priest he rode her sair;
An' meikle oppress'd an' bruised she was,
As priest-rid cattle are.