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See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes,
She's swingein' through the city;
Hark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays!
I vow it's unco pretty :

There Learning, wi' his Greekish face,
Grunts out some Latin ditty:
An' Common-sense is gaun, she says,
To mak to Jamie Beattie

Her plaint this day.
XII.

But there's Morality himsel',
Embracing a' 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!
Now there-they're packed aff to hell,
An' banish'd our dominions,
Henceforth this day.

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To every New Light* mother's son,
From this time forth Confusion:
If mair they deave us wi' their din,
Or Patronage intrusion,
We'll light a spunk, an' ev'ry skin,
We'll rin them aff in fusion

Like oil, some day.

THE CALF.

TO THE REV. MR

On his Text, MALACHI, ch. iv. ver. 2" And they shall go forth, and grow up, like CALVES of the stall."

RIGHT SIR! your text I'll prove it true,
Though Heretics may laugh;
For instance; there's yoursel' just now,
God knows, an unco Calf!

An' should some Patron be so kind,
As bless you wi' a kirk,

I doubt nae, Sir, but then we'll find,
Ye're still as great a Stirk.

But, if the Lovers raptur'd hour
Shall ever be your lot,
Forbid it, every heavenly Power,
You e'er should be a Stot!

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, Your but-and-ben adorns,

The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns.

And in your lug, most reverend James,
To hear you roar and rowte,
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims
To rank amang the nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead,
Below a grassy hillock,

Wi' justice they may mark your headHere lies a famous Bullock !

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
That led the embattled Seraphim to war.-Milton.

O THOU! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' scotie,
Clos'd under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;

*New Light is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr Taylor of Nor. wich has defended so strenuously.

I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;
Far kend and noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion,
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin';
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin',
Tirling the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin',
Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend Graunie say,
In lanely glens you like to stray;
Or where auld ruin'd castles gray,
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,
Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my Graunie summon, To say her prayers, douce honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin'! Wi' eerie drone ;

Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries comin',
Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light,
Wi' you, mysel', I gat a fright,

Ayont the lough;

Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight, Wi' waving sough.

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Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An' float the jinglin' icy-boord,
Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,

An nighted Trav'llers are allured
To their destruction.

An aft your moss-traversing Spunkies Decoy the wight that late and drunk is; The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.

When Masons' mystic word an' grip, In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell;

The youngest Brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shared, The raptured hour, Sweet on the frgrant flowery swaird In shady bower:

Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog!
Ye came to Paradise incog.
An' played on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa'!)

An' gied the infant world a shog,
'Maist ruined a

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz,
Ye did present your emoutie phiz
'Mang better folk,
An' sklented on the man of Uz

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house an' hall,
While scabs and blotches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw,

An' lowsed his ill tongued wicked Scawl,
Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce,
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce,
Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin',
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin',
Some luckless hour will send him linkin',
To your black pit;

* Vide Milton, book vi,

When ance life's day draws near the Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,

gloamin',

Then fareweel vacant careless roamin'; An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin',

An' social noise;

An' fareweel dear deluding woman,
The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning, Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! Cold pausing Caution's lesson scorning, We frisk away,

Like school-boys, at the expected warning, To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Amang the leaves : And though the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves.

Some lucky, find a flowery spat, For which they never toiled nor swat They drink the sweet and eat the fat, But care or pain

And haply eye the barren hut

With high disdain.

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My pen I here fling to the door,

And kneel, Ye Pow'rs!' and warm implore,
Tho' I should wander terra o'er,
In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,

Aye rowth o' rhymes.

Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards:
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,
An' maids of honour

An' yill an' whisky gie to cairds,
Until they sconner

A title, Dempster merits it;
A garter gie to Willie Pitt;

In cent. per cent.

But give me real, sterling wit,

An' I'm content.

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But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason.

[On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.]

I.

GUID-MORNIN' to your Majesty!
May heaven augment your blisses,
On every new birth day ye see,
A humble poet wishes!
My bardship here at your levee,
On sic a day as this is,

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When ance life's day draws near the Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,

gloamin',

Then fareweel vacant careless roamin';
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin',
An' social noise;

An' fareweel dear deluding woman,
The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning, Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning! Cold pausing Caution's lesson scorning, We frisk away,

Like school-boys, at the expected warning, To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Amang the leaves : And though the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves.

Some lucky, find a flowery spat, For which they never toiled nor swat They drink the sweet and eat the fat, But care or pain

And haply eye the barren hut

With high disdain.

With steady aim, some Fortune chase;
Keen hope does every sinew brace:
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,
And seize the prey:

Then cannie in some cozie place,
They close the day.

An' others, like your humble servan', Poor wights! nae rules or roads observin'; To right or left, eternal swervin',

They zig-zag on; Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin', They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an' strainingBut truce with peevish poor complaining! Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning?

E'en let her gang,

Beneath what light she has remaining, Let's sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door,

And kneel, Ye Pow'rs!' and warm implore,
Tho' I should wander terra o'er,
In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,

Aye rowth o' rhymes.

Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards:
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,
An' maids of honour

An' yill an' whisky gie to cairds,
Until they sconner

A title, Dempster merits it; A garter gie to Willie Pitt;

In cent. per cent.

But give me real, sterling wit,

An' I'm content.

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