Our Patron, honest man! Glencairn, He's wal'd us out a true ane, And sound this day. IX. Now R******* harangue nae mair, For there they'll think you clever; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Aff-hand this day. X. M***** and you were just a match, And ay' 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. XI. See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays There, Learning, with his Greekish face, And Common Sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint this day. XII. But there's Morality himsel, 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, And banish'd our dominions, Henceforth this day. XIII. O happy day! rejoice, rejoice! Shall here nae mair find quarter; And cow her measure shorter By th' head some day. XIV. Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 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 my laugh; For instance; there's yoursel just now, And should some Patron be so kind, I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, Ye're still as great a Stirk. *New Light is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously. But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour Forbid it, every heavenly Power, Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, The like has been that you may wear 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 head. "Here lies a famous Bullock.' ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, MILTON THOU! whatever title suit thee, Clos'd under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, E'en to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; 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 |