Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will allow, And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.

Muirland Jock*, Muirland Jock, when the L-d makes a rock

To crush common sense for her sins,
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit
To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Holy Will, † Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull, When ye pilfer'd the alms of the poor;

The timmer is scant, when ye're ta’en for a saint, Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns, Ammunition you never can need;

Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther enough, And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelping turns,

Why desert ye your auld native shire;

Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie,
She cou'd ca' us nae waur than we are.

* Mr S―d.

+ An E-r in M

THE

TWA HERDS.*

ba'ye pious godly flocks,

Well fed on pastures orthodox,

Wha now will keep you frae the fox,

Or worrying tykes,

Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks,

About the dykes ?

The twa best herds in a' the wast,

That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast,
These five and twenty summers past,

O! dool to tell,

Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast

Atween themsel.

* This piece was among the first of our Author's productions which he submitted to the public; and was occasioned by a dispute between two Clergymen, near Kilmarnock.

O, M

-y, man, and wordy R――ll,

How could you raise so vile a bustle,

Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle,
And think it fine!

The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle,
Sin' I ha'e min'.

O, Sirs! whae'er wad ha'e expekit,
Your duty ye wad sae neglekit,

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respekit,

To wear the plaid,

But by the brutes themselves elekit,

To be their guide.

What flock wi' M—y's flock could rank, Sae hale and hearty every shank,

Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank,

He let them taste,

Frae Calvin's well, ay clear they drank,
O' sic a feast!

The thummart, willcat, brock and tod,
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood,
He smell'd their ilka hole and road,
Baith out and in,

And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,

And sell their skin.

What herd like R-11 tell'd his tale,
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale,
He kend the Lord's sheep ilka tail,
O'er a' the height,

And 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,

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 disagreet,

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,
There's D―n deep, and P———

-s shaul,

But chiefly thou, apostle A-d,

We trust in thee,

That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, Till they agree.

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
In fiery flame.

De has been lang our fae,
Mll has wrought us meikle wae,
And that curs'd rascal ca'd M- -e,

And baith the Ss,

That aft ha'e made us black and blae,

Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Ww lang has hatch'd mischief, We thought ay death wad bring relief, But he has gotten, to our grief,

Ane to succeed him,

A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef;

I meikle dread him.