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 Stop! there he is as sure's a gun, Nac wonder he's as black's the grun, Your brunstane devilship, I see, Your pity I will not implore, Justice, alas! has gien him o'er, But here me, Sir, Deil as ye are, 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 join faith and sense upon onie pretence, Town of Ayr, Town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, *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 And your life like the new driven snaw, Rumble Johnt, Rumble John, mount the steps wi Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd; Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like adle, 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 Wi ajump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, Daddy Aulds, Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld 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. R-ss-ll, Mr. My. 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, Poet Williet, Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, 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, Irvine side§, Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock pride, 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. 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, LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK, On the Publication of his Essays. O GOUDIE! terror o' the Whigs, Girnin looks back, Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues Wad seize you quick. *An Elder in Me. |