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The New What herd like Russell tell'd his tale; Lights His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, scoff and He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, Owre a' the height;



An' saw gin they were sick or hale,
Át 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 deep, an' Peebles shauld,
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,

We trust in thee,

That thou wilt work them, het an' cauld,
Till they agree.

Consider, sirs, how we're beset;


'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,
An' that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae,
And baith the Shaws,

That aft hae made us black an' 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 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 for ane;

I doubt he's but a grey nick quill,
An' that ye'll finʼ.

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.

Popular election is the remedy

Poverty glooms at Plenty

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.



WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
An' bar the doors wi' driving snaw,
An' hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass the time,
An' spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
In hamely, westlin jingle:

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift,
That live sae bien an' snug:

I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker, and canker,
To see their cursed pride.

It's hardly in a body's pow'r

To keep, at times, frae being sour,

To see how things are shar'd:
How best o' chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,

And ken na how to wair't;

But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,

Tho' we hae little gear;

We're fit to win our daily bread,

As lang's we're hale and fier;

"Mair speir na nor fear na,"
Auld age ne'er mind a feg;
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only but to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,

When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin,
Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest;
Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'
Intended fraud or guile,

However Fortune kick the ba',
Has aye some cause to smile;
An' mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma';
Nae mair then we'll care then,
Nae farther we can fa'.

What tho', like commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,
But either house or hal',

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,

With honest joy our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year :


beggar shares in

Nature's wealth

Happiness is of the heart


On braes when we please then,
We'll sit an' sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till❜t we'll time till't,
An' sing't when we hae done.

It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest:
It's no in makin' muckle, mair;
It's no in books, it's no in lear,
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat
An' centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest;

Nae treasures nor pleasures
Could make us happy lang;
The heart aye's the part aye

That makes us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,

Wha drudge an' drive thro' wet and dry,
Wi' never-ceasing toil;

Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their


As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how aft in haughty mood,
God's creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid,
They riot in excess !

Baith careless and fearless
Of either heaven or hell;
Esteeming and deeming
It's a' an idle tale!

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