| |
| KILMARNOCK wabsters, fidge an’ claw, | |
| An’ pour your creeshie nations; | |
| An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw, | |
| Of a’ denominations; | |
| Swith to the Ligh Kirk, ane an’ a’ | 5 |
| An’ there tak up your stations; | |
| Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw, | |
| An’ pour divine libations | |
| For joy this day. | |
| |
| Curst Common-sense, that imp o’ hell, | 10 |
| Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder; 1 | |
| But Oliphant 2 aft made her yell, | |
| An’ Russell 3 sair misca’d her: | |
| This day Mackinlay 4 taks the flail, | |
| An’ he’s the boy will blaud her! | 15 |
| He’ll clap a shangan on her tail, | |
| An’ set the bairns to daud her | |
| Wi’ dirt this day. | |
| |
| Mak haste an’ turn King David owre, | |
| And lilt wi’ holy clangor; | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| And gloriously she’ll whang her | |
| Wi’ pith this day. | |
| |
| Come, let a proper text be read, | |
| An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour, | |
| How graceless Ham 5 leugh at his dad, | 30 |
| Which made Canaan a nigger; | |
| Or Phineas 6 drove the murdering blade, | |
| Wi’ whore-abhorring rigour; | |
| Or Zipporah, 7 the scauldin jad, | |
| Was like a bluidy tiger | 35 |
| I’ th’ inn that day. | |
| |
| There, try his mettle on the creed, | |
| An’ bind him down wi’ caution, | |
| That stipend is a carnal weed | |
| He taks by for the fashion; | 40 |
| 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 nae day. | 45 |
| |
| Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, | |
| An’ toss thy horns fu’ canty; | |
| Nae mair thou’lt rowt out-owre the dale, | |
| Because thy pasture’s scanty; | |
| For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kail | 50 |
| Shall fill thy crib in plenty, | |
| An’ runts o’ grace the pick an’ wale, | |
| No gi’en by way o’ dainty, | |
| But ilka day. | |
| |
| Nae mair by Babel’s streams we’ll weep, | 55 |
| 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; | 60 |
| Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep, | |
| And a’ like lamb-tails flyin | |
| Fu’ fast this day. | |
| |
| Lang, Patronage, with rod o’ airn, | |
| Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoin; | 65 |
| As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, | |
| Has proven to its ruin: 8 | |
| Our patron, honest man! Glencairn, | |
| He saw mischief was brewin; | |
| An’ like a godly, elect bairn, | 70 |
| He’s waled us out a true ane, | |
| And sound, this day. | |
| |
| Now Robertson 9 harangue nae mair, | |
| But steek your gab for ever; | |
| Or try the wicked town of Ayr, | 75 |
| For there they’ll think you clever; | |
| Or, nae reflection on your lear, | |
| Ye may commence a shaver; | |
| Or to the Netherton 10 repair, | |
| An’ turn a carpet weaver | 80 |
| Aff-hand this day. | |
| |
| Mu’trie 11 and you were just a match, | |
| We never had sic twa drones; | |
| Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, | |
| Just like a winkin baudrons, | 85 |
| And aye he catch’d the tither wretch, | |
| To fry them in his caudrons; | |
| But now his Honour maun detach, | |
| Wi’ a’ his brimstone squadrons, | |
| Fast, fast this day. | 90 |
| |
| See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faes | |
| She’s swingein thro’ the city! | |
| Hark, how the nine-tail’d cat she plays! | |
| I vow it’s unco pretty: | |
| There, Learning, with his Greekish face, | 95 |
| Grunts out some Latin ditty; | |
| And Common-sense is gaun, she says, | |
| To mak to Jamie Beattie | |
| Her plaint this day. | |
| |
| But there’s Morality himsel’, | 100 |
| Embracing all opinions; | |
| Hear, how he gies the tither yell, | |
| Between his twa companions! | |
| See, how she peels the skin an’ fell, | |
| As ane were peelin onions! | 105 |
| Now there, they’re packed aff to hell, | |
| An’ banish’d our dominions, | |
| Henceforth this day. | |
| |
| O happy day! rejoice, rejoice! | |
| Come bouse about the porter! | 110 |
| Morality’s demure decoys | |
| Shall here nae mair find quarter: | |
| Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys | |
| That heresy can torture; | |
| They’ll gie her on a rape a hoyse, | 115 |
| And cowe 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 12 mother’s son, | 120 |
| From this time forth, Confusion! | |
| If mair they deave us wi’ their din, | |
| Or Patronage intrusion, | |
| We’ll light a spunk, and ev’ry skin, | |
| We’ll rin them aff in fusion | 125 |
| Like oil, some day. | |
