| |
| WHILE at the stook the shearers cow’r | |
| To shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r, | |
| Or in gulravage rinnin scowr | |
| To pass the time, | |
| To you I dedicate the hour | 5 |
| In idle rhyme. | |
| |
| My musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnet | |
| On gown, an’ ban’, an’ douse black bonnet, | |
| Is grown right eerie now she’s done it, | |
| Lest they should blame her, | 10 |
| An’ rouse their holy thunder on it | |
| An anathem her. | |
| |
| I own ’twas rash, an’ rather hardy, | |
| That I, a simple, country bardie, | |
| Should meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy, | 15 |
| Wha, if they ken me, | |
| Can easy, wi’ a single wordie, | |
| Lowse hell upon me. | |
| |
| But I gae mad at their grimaces, | |
| Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces, | 20 |
| Their three-mile prayers, an’ half-mile graces, | |
| Their raxin conscience, | |
| Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces | |
| Waur nor their nonsense. | |
| |
| There’s Gaw’n, misca’d waur than a beast, | 25 |
| Wha has mair honour in his breast | |
| Than mony scores as guid’s the priest | |
| Wha sae abus’d him: | |
| And may a bard no crack his jest | |
| What way they’ve us’d him? | 30 |
| |
| See him, the poor man’s friend in need, | |
| The gentleman in word an’ deed— | |
| An’ shall his fame an’ honour bleed | |
| By worthless, skellums, | |
| An’ not a muse erect her head | 35 |
| To cowe the blellums? | |
| |
| O Pope, had I thy satire’s darts | |
| To gie the rascals their deserts, | |
| I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts, | |
| An’ tell aloud | 40 |
| Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts | |
| To cheat the crowd. | |
| |
| God knows, I’m no the thing I should be, | |
| Nor am I even the thing I could be, | |
| But twenty times I rather would be | 45 |
| An atheist clean, | |
| Than under gospel colours hid be | |
| Just for a screen. | |
| |
| An honest man may like a glass, | |
| An honest man may like a lass, | 50 |
| But mean revenge, an’ malice fause | |
| He’ll still disdain, | |
| An’ then cry zeal for gospel laws, | |
| Like some we ken. | |
| |
| They take religion in their mouth; | 55 |
| They talk o’ mercy, grace, an’ truth, | |
| For what?—to gie their malice skouth | |
| On some puir wight, | |
| An’ hunt him down, owre right and ruth, | |
| To ruin straight. | 60 |
| |
| All hail, Religion! maid divine! | |
| Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, | |
| Who in her rough imperfect line | |
| Thus daurs to name thee; | |
| To stigmatise false friends of thine | 65 |
| Can ne’er defame thee. | |
| |
| Tho’ blotch’t and foul wi’ mony a stain, | |
| An’ far unworthy of thy train, | |
| With trembling voice I tune my strain, | |
| To join with those | 70 |
| Who boldly dare thy cause maintain | |
| In spite of foes: | |
| |
| In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mobs, | |
| In spite o’ undermining jobs, | |
| In spite o’ dark banditti stabs | 75 |
| At worth an’ merit, | |
| By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes, | |
| But hellish spirit. | |
| |
| O Ayr! my dear, my native ground, | |
| Within thy presbyterial bound | 80 |
| A candid liberal band is found | |
| Of public teachers, | |
| As men, as Christians too, renown’d, | |
| An’ manly preachers. | |
| |
| Sir, in that circle you are nam’d; | 85 |
| Sir, in that circle you are fam’d; | |
| An’ some, by whom your doctrine’s blam’d | |
| (Which gies you honour) | |
| Even, sir, by them your heart’s esteem’d, | |
| An’ winning manner. | 90 |
| |
| Pardon this freedom I have ta’en, | |
| An’ if impertinent I’ve been, | |
| Impute it not, good Sir, in ane | |
| Whase heart ne’er wrang’d ye, | |
| But to his utmost would befriend | 95 |
| Ought that belang’d ye. | |
| |
