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 sour Arminian stank

He let them taste;

Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drankOh, sic a feast!

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, Weel kenn'd his voice through a' the wood, He smelt their ilka hole and road,

Baith out and in,

And weel he liked to shed their bluid,
And sell their skin.

What herd like Russell tell'd his tale,
His voice was heard through muir and dale,
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,
O'er a' the height,

And saw gin they were sick or hale,
At the first sight.

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,
Or nobly swing the gospel-club,
And New-Light herds could nicely drub,
Or pay their skin;

Could shake them owre the burning dub,
Or heave them in.

Sic twa-oh! do I live to see't-
Sie famous twa should disagreet,

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, deep, and Peebles, shaul, But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,

We trust in thee,

That thou wilt work them, het and 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 heaven to see them yet
In fiery flame.

Dalrymple has been lang our fae,
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae,
And that cursed rascal ca'd M'Quhae,
And baith the Shaws,
That aft hae made us black and blae,
Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief,
We thought aye death wad bring relief,
But he has gotten, to our grief,

Ane to succeed him,

A chiel wha'll soundly buff our beef;
I meikle dread him,

And mony a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel,

Forbye turn-coats amang oursel;

There's Smith for ane,

I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill,
And that ye'll fin'.

Oh! 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,

And get the brutes the powers themsels
To choose their herds

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
And Learning in a woody dance,
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,

Be banish'd o'er the sea to France:
Let him bark there.

Then Shaw's and D'rymple's eloquence,
M'Gill's close nervous excellence,
M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense,

And guid M'Math,

Wi' Smith, wha through the heart can glance,
May a' pack aff.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.

WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY

TORMENTED BY THAT DISORDER.

MY

Y curse upon thy venom'd stang, That shoots my tortured gums alang; And through my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance;

Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,

Like wracking engines!

When fevers burn, and ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ;
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;

But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases,

Aye mocks our groan!

Adown my beard the slavers trickle!
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle,
To see me loup;

While, raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup.

Of a' the numerous human dools,
Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends raked i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!

The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools,
Thou bear'st the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca'd hell,
Whence a' the tones o' misery yell,
And ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,

Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell
Amang them a'!

O thou grim mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes of discord squeel,
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel

In gore a shoe thick,

Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal

A townmond's toothache!

ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD,

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY

DISTRESS.

WEET flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,
And ward o' mony a prayer,

What heart o' stane would thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

November hirples o'er the lea,
Chill on thy lovely forin;
And gane, alas! the sheltering tree
Should shield thee frae the storm.

May He who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving show'r,
The bitter frost and snaw!

May He, the friend of woe and want,
Who heal's life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds.

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast,
Fair on the summer morn :
Now, feebly bends she in the blast,
Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscathed by ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land.