THE TWA HERDS.*

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 and crocks,
About the dykes?

The twa best herds in a' the wast,
That e'er gaed gospel horn a blast,
These five-and-twenty simmers past,
O' dool to tell,

Hae had a bitter, black out-cast

Atween themsel'.

O M -y, man, and wordy R-11,
How could you raise so vile a bustle,
Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle,
And think it fine;

The L-d'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,

This piece was among the first of our author's productions which he submitted to the public, and was occasioned by a dispute between wo clergymen, near Kilmarnock.

But by the brutes themselves eleckit
To be their guide.

What flock wi' M—y's flock could rank?
Sae hale and hearty ev'ry shank,
Nae poison'd, sour, Arminian stank
He let them taste;

Frae Calvin's well, ay clear, they drank,
O sic a feast!

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

Baith out and in,

And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,
And sell their skin.

What herd like R-11 tell'd his tale?
His voice was heard thro' 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 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 disagreet,
An' names, like villain, hypocrite,
Ilk ither gien,

While new-light herds, wi' laughin spite,

That thou wilt work them, hot 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 heav'n to see them yet

D

M.

-e has been lang our fae,
-11 has wrought us meikle wae,

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M- -e,

And baith the S- -8,

That aft hae made us black and blae,
Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld W. -w lang has hatch'd mischief,
We thought ay 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 monie a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel,
Forbye turn-coats amang oursel';

There S-h for ane

I doubt he's but a gray 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 counsels and your skills
To cowe the lairds,

And get the brutes the pow'r 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'-ll's close nervous excellence,
M'—'s pathetic, manly sense,

And guid M'- -h,

Wi' S-th, wha thro' the heart can glance, May a' pack aff.

TO THE REV. MR.

IV. V. 2- 66

THE CALF.

ON HIS TEXT, MALACHI, CH.

AND THEY SHALL GO FORTH, AND GROW

UP, LIKE CALVES OF THE STALL."

RIGHT, sir! your text I'll prove it true,
Tho' heretics may laugh;

For instance, there's yoursel' just now,
God knows, an unco calf!

And should some patron be so kind,
As bless you wi' a kirk,

I doubt na, sir, but then we'll find
Ye're still as great a stirk!

But, if the lover's raptur'd hour
Should ever be your lot,
Forbid it, ev'ry heav'nly Power,
You e'er should be a stot!

Tho' when some kind, connubial dear,
Your but-and-ben adorns,

The like has been, that you may wear

A noble head of horns!

And in your lug, most rev'rend James,
To hear you roar and rowte,

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims
To rank amang the nowte.