THE TWA HERDS:

OR, THE HOLY TULZIE.

[The actors in this indecent drama were Moodie, minister of Ricartoun, and Russell, helper to the minister of Kilmarnock: though apostles of the "Old Light," they forgot their brotherhood in the vehemence of controversy, and went, it is said, to blows. "This poem," says Burns, "with a certain description of the clergy as well as laity, met with a roar of applause."]

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 ga'e gospel horn a blast,
These five and twenty simmers past,
O! dool to tell,

Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast

Atween themsel.

O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell,
How could you raise so vile a bustle,
Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle

And think it fine:

The Lord's cause ne'er got sic a twistle

Sin' I ha'e min'.

O, sirs! whae'er wad ha'e 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 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 kend 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 Russell tell'd his tale, His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, He kend 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 or 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 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, 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
In fiery flame.

Dalrymple has been lang our fae,
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae,
And that curs'd rascal call'd M'Quhae,

And baith the Shaws,

That aft ha'e 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,

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

And get the brutes the

To cow the lairds,

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 Dalrymple's eloquence,
M'Gill's close nervous excellence,

M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense,

And guid M'Math,

Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,

May a' pack aff.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.

"And send the godly in a pet to pray."-POPE.

[Of this sarcastic and too daring poem many copies in manuscript were circulated while the poet lived, but though not unknown or unfelt by Currie, it continued unpublished till printed by Stewart with the Jolly Beggars, in 1801. Holy Willie was a small farmer, leading elder to Auld, a name well known to all lovers of Burns; austere in speech, scrupulous in all outward observances, and what is known by the name of a "professing Christian." He experienced, however, a "sore fall;" he permitted himself to be "filled fou," and in a moment when "self got in" made free, it is said, with the money of the poor of the parish. His name was William Fisher.]

O THOU, wha in the heavens dost dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best thysel',

Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell,

A' for thy glory,

And no for ony gude or ill

They've done afore thee!

I bless and praise thy matchless might,
Whan thousands thou hast left in night,

That I am here afore thy sight,

For gifts and grace,

A burnin' and a shinin' light

To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation,
I wha deserve sic just damnation,

For broken laws,

Five thousand years 'fore my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plunged me in hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin' lake,

Whar damned devils roar and yell,

Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample;

To show thy grace is great and ample;

I'm here a pillar in thy temple,

Strong as a rock,

A guide, a buckler, an example,

To a' thy flock.

But yet, O Lord! confess I must,
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust;
And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust,
Vile self gets in;

But thou remembers we are dust,

Defiled in sin.

O Lord! yestreen thou kens, wi' Meg

Thy pardon I sincerely beg,

O! may't ne'er be a livin' plague

To my dishonour,

An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg

Again upon her.

Besides, I farther maun allow,

Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow

But Lord, that Friday I was fou,

When I came near her,

Or else, thou kens, thy servant true

Wad ne'er hae steer'd her.

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn,

Beset thy servant e'en and morn,

Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted;

If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne

Until thou lift it.

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place,
For here thou hast a chosen race:
But God confound their stubborn face,

And blast their name,

Wha bring thy elders to disgrace

And public shame.

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts,

He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes,