To think how we stood sweatin, shakin, An' d-d wi' dread,

While he, wi' hinging lips and snakin, Held up his head.

L-d, in the day of vengeance try him, Ld, visit them wha did employ him An' pass not in thy mercy by 'em,

Nor hear their pray'r ; But for thy people's sake, destroy 'em, And dinna spare,

But L-d, remember me and mine Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for gear and grace may shine, Excell'd by nane

An' a' the glory shall be thine,

Amen, Amen.

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE

Here Holy Willie's sair-worn clay
Takes up its last abode;
His saul has taen some other way
I fear the left-hand road."

Stop! there he is as sure's a gun,
Poor silly body, see him:

Nac wonder he's as black's the grun,
Observe wha's standing wi' him.

Your brunstane devilship, I see,
Has got him there before ye;
But haud your nine-tail cat a-wee,
Till ance you've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye hae nane;

Justice, alas! has gien him o'er,
And mercy's day is gaen.

But here me, Sir, Deil as ye are,
Look something to your credit:
A coof like him wa'd stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it.

THE KIRK'S ALARM.*

A SATIRE.

ORTHODOX, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience; There's a heretic blast, has been blawn in the wast, That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Dr. Mac,t Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack,
To strike evil-doers wi' terror;

To join faith and sense upon onie pretence,
Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, Town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;

Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief,
And orator Bobt is its ruin.

*This Poem was written a short time after the publication of Dr. M'Gill's Essay.

+Dr. M'Gill.

R

t A-k-n.

D'rymple mild*, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's
like a child,

And your life like the new driven snaw,
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye,
For preaching that three's ane and twa.

Rumble Johnt, Rumble John, mount the steps wi
a groan,

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd;

Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like adle,
And roar every note of the damn'd.

Simper Jamest, Simper James, leave the fair Ki A lie dames,

There's a holier chace in your view;

am

I'll lay on your head, that the pack_ye'll soon lead. Y For puppies like you there's but few.

Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, are ye herding
the penny,
Unconscious what evils await;

Wi ajump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul,
For the foul Thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Aulds, Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld
A tod meikle waur than the Clerk;

Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death And gifye canna bite, ye may bark.

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye muster,

The corps is no nice ofrecruits:

Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast, If the ass was the king of the brutes.

*Mr. D-m-le.
Mr. M'K-y.
Mr. A-d.

† Mr. R-ss-ll,

Mr. My.
Mr. Gt of 0-1-

H

}

Jamy Goose*, Jamy Goose, ye hae made but toom

roose,

In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;

But the Doctor's your mark, for the L-d's haly ark,
He has cooper'd and caw'd a wrang pin in't.

Poet Williet, Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley,
Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit;
O'er Pagasus' side ye ne'er laid a-stride,

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t.

Andro Goukt, Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book,

And the book not the waur let me tell ye!

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig, And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value.

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, what mean ye! what mean ye!

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,

Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense,
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

Irvine side§, Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock pride,
Of manhood but sma' is your share;

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

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

To crush Common Sense for her sins, fill-manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit To confound the poor doctor at once.

*Mr. Y-g of C-n-k. Dr. A. M-11.

$ Mr. Sh of G-n.

† Mr. P-b-s of A-r.
S-n Y-g of B-
Mr. Sd.

Holy Will*, Holy Will, there was wit i' your skul When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor;

The timmer is scant, when ye're taen 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 store houses 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.

LETTER

TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK,

On the Publication of his Essays.

O GOUDIE! terror o' the Whigs,
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs,
Soor bigotry, on her last legs,

Girnin looks back,

Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues

Wad seize you quick.

*An Elder in Me.