| |
| O A’ ye pious godly flocks, | |
| Weel fed on pastures orthodox, | |
| Wha now will keep you frae the fox, | |
| Or worrying tykes? | |
| Or wha will tent the waifs an’ crocks, | 5 |
| About the dykes? | |
| |
| The twa best herds in a’ the wast, | |
| The e’er ga’e gospel horn a blast | |
| These five an’ twenty simmers past— | |
| Oh, dool to tell! | 10 |
| Hae had a bitter black out-cast | |
| Atween themsel’. | |
| |
| O, Moddie, 1 man, an’ wordy Russell, 2 | |
| How could you raise so vile a bustle; | |
| Ye’ll see how New-Light herds will whistle, | 15 |
| An’ think it fine! | |
| The L—’s cause ne’er gat sic a twistle, | |
| Sin’ I hae min’. | |
| |
| O, sirs! whae’er wad hae expeckit | |
| Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, | 20 |
| Ye wha were ne’er by lairds respeckit | |
| To wear the plaid; | |
| But by the brutes themselves eleckit, | |
| To be their guide. | |
| |
| What flock wi’ Moodie’s flock could rank?— | 25 |
| Sae hale and hearty every shank! | |
| Nae poison’d soor Arminian stank | |
| He let them taste; | |
| Frae Calvin’s well, aye clear, drank,— | |
| O, sic a feast! | 30 |
| |
| The thummart, willcat, brock, an’ tod, | |
| Weel kend his voice thro’ a’ the wood, | |
| He smell’d their ilka hole an’ road, | |
| Baith out an in; | |
| An’ weel he lik’d to shed their bluid, | 35 |
| An’ sell their skin. | |
| |
| What herd like Russell tell’d his tale; | |
| His voice was heard thro’ muir and dale, | |
| He kenn’d the L—’s sheep, ilka tail, | |
| Owre a’ the height; | 40 |
| An’ saw gin they were sick or hale, | |
| At the first sight. | |
| |
| He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, | |
| Or nobly fling the gospel club, | |
| And New-Light herds could nicely drub | 45 |
| Or pay their skin; | |
| Could shake them o’er the burning dub, | |
| Or heave them in. | |
| |
| Sic twa-O! do I live to see’t?— | |
| Sic famous twa should disagree’t, | 50 |
| And names, like “villain,” “hypocrite,” | |
| Ilk ither gi’en, | |
| While New-Light herds, wi’ laughin spite, | |
| Say neither’s liein! | |
| |
| A’ ye wha tent the gospel fauld, | 55 |
| There’s Duncan 3 deep, an’ Peebles 4 shaul, | |
| But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, 5 | |
| We trust in thee, | |
| That thou wilt work them, het an’ cauld, | |
| Till they agree. | 60 |
| |
| Consider, sirs, how we’re beset; | |
| There’s scarce a new herd that we get, | |
| But comes frae ’mang that cursed set, | |
| I winna name; | |
| I hope frae heav’n to see them yet | 65 |
| In fiery flame. | |
| |
| Dalrymple 6 has been lang our fae, | |
| M’Gill 7 has wrought us meikle wae, | |
| An’ that curs’d rascal ca’d M’Quhae, 8 | |
| And baith the Shaws, 9 | 70 |
| That aft hae made us black an’ blae, | |
| Wi’ vengefu’ paws. | |
| |
| Auld Wodrow 10 lang has hatch’d mischief; | |
| We thought aye death wad bring relief; | |
| But he has gotten, to our grief, | 75 |
| Ane to succeed him, | |
| A chield wha’ 11 soundly buff our beef; | |
| I meikle dread him. | |
| |
| And mony a ane that I could tell, | |
| Wha fain wad openly rebel, | 80 |
| Forby turn-coats amang oursel’, | |
| There’s Smith 12 for ane; | |
| I doubt he’s but a grey nick quill, | |
| An’ that ye’ll fin’. | |
| |
| O! a’ ye flocks o’er a, the hills, | 85 |
| By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, | |
| Come, join your counsel and your skills | |
| To cowe the lairds, | |
| An’ get the brutes the power themsel’s | |
| To choose their herds. | 90 |
| |
| Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, | |
| An’ Learning in a woody dance, | |
| An’ that fell cur ca’d Common Sense, | |
| That bites sae sair, | |
| Be banished o’er the sea to France: | 95 |
| Let him bark there. | |
| |
| Then Shaw’s an’ D’rymple’s eloquence, | |
| M’Gill’s close nervous excellence | |
| M’Quhae’s pathetic manly sense, | |
| An’ guid M’Math, | 100 |
| Wi’ Smith, wha thro’ the heart can glance, | |
| May a’ pack aff. | |
