- O a' ye pious godly flocks,
- Weel fed on pastures orthodox,
- Wha now will keep you frae the fox,
- Or worrying tykes?
- Or wha will tent the waifs an' crocks,
- About the dykes?
- The twa best herds in a' the wast,
- The e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast
- These five an' twenty simmers past-
- Oh, dool to tell!
- Hae had a bitter black out-cast
- Atween themsel'.
- O a' ye pious godly flocks,
- Weel fed on pastures orthodox,
- Wha now will keep you frae the fox,
- Or worrying tykes?
- Or wha will tent the waifs an' crocks,
- About the dykes?
- The twa best herds in a' the wast,
- The e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast
- These five an' twenty simmers past-
- Oh, dool to tell!
- Hae had a bitter black out-cast
- Atween themsel'.
- O, Moddie,*(1) man, an' wordy Russel,*(2)
- How could you raise so vile a bustle;
- Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle,
- An' think it fine!
- Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle,
- Sin' I hae min'.
- O, sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit
- Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,
- Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit
- To wear the plaid;
- But by the brutes themselves eleckit,
- To be their guide.
- What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank?-
- Sae hale and hearty every shank!
- Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank
- He let them taste;
- Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, drank, -
- O, sic a feast!
- The thummart, willcat, brock, an' tod,
- Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood,
- He smell'd their ilka hole an' road,
- Baith out an in;
- An' weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,
- An' sell their skin.
- What herd like Russel tell'd his tale;
- His voice was heard thro' muir and dale,
- He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,
- Owre a' the height;
- An' 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 disagree't,
- 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 Duncan*(3) deep, an' Peebles*4 shaul,
- But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,*(5)
- We trust in thee,
- That thou wilt work them, het an' 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.
- Dalrymple*(6) has been lang our fae,
- M'Gill*(7) has wrought us meikle wae,
- An' that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae,*(8)
- And baith the Shaws,*(9)
- That aft hae made us black an' blae,
- Wi' vengefu' paws.
- Auld Wodrow*(10) lang has hatch'd mischief;
- We thought aye death wad bring relief;
- But he has gotten, to our grief,
- Ane to succeed him,*(11)
- A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef;
- I meikle dread him.
- And mony a ane that I could tell,
- Wha fain wad openly rebel,
- Forby turn-coats amang oursel',
- There's Smith*(12) for ane;
- I doubt he's but a grey nick quill,
- An' that ye'll fin'.
- O! a' ye flocks o'er a, the hills,
- By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
- Come, join your counsel and your skills
- To cowe the lairds,
- An' get the brutes the power themsel's
- To choose their herds.
- Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
- An' Learning in a woody dance,
- An' that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,
- That bites sae sair,
- Be banished o'er the sea to France:
- Let him bark there.
- Then Shaw's an' D'rymple's eloquence,
- M'Gill's close nervous excellence
- M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense,
- An' guid M'Math,
- Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,
- May a' pack aff.
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