66 The poor, oppressèd, honest man Had there not been some recompense "O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, THE TWA HERDS; OR, THE HOLY TULYIE AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE "Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor, But fool with fool is barbarous civil war."-POPE. 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, The twa best herds in a' the wast, Hae had a bitter black out-cast Atween themsel'. O, Moodie,' man, an' wordy Russell,' Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle, 1 Rev. Mr. Moodie of Riccarton. 2 Rev. John Russell of Kilmarnock. The L's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, O, sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit But by the brutes themselves eleckit, What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank?— Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank Frae Calvin's well aye clear they drank,- The thummart, willcat, brock, an' tod, An' weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, What herd like Russell tell'd his tale; Owre a' the height; An' saw gin they were sick or hale, He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, And New-Light herds could nicely drub. Could shake them o'er the burning dub, Or heave them in. Sic twa-O! do I live to see't?- And names, like "villain," "hypocrite," While New-Light herds, wi' laughin spite, A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, het an' cauld, Consider, sirs, how we're beset; I hope frae heav'n to see them yet Dalrymple has been lang our fae, Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief; Ane to succeed him," A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef; And mony a ane that I could tell, Wha fain wad openly rebel, Rev. Wm. Peebles of Rev. Dr. Dalrymple Dalrymple. 8 Minister and Dr. David Shaw Rev. John M'Math, Dr. Robert Duncan of Dundonald. Newton-on-Ayr. Rev. Wm. Auld of Mauchline. of Ayr. 7 Rev. Wm. M'Gill, colleague of Dr. of St. Quivox. Dr. Andrew Shaw of Craigie, of Coylton. 10 Dr. Peter Wodrow of Tarbolton. a young assistant and successor to Wodrow. Forby turn-coats amang oursel', I doubt he's but a grey nick quill, O! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, An' get the brutes the power themsel's Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, Be banished o'er the sea to France: Then Shaw's an' D'rymple's eloquence, An' guid M'Math, Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance, EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, 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, 12 Rev. George Smith of Galston. I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift, I tent less, and want less To see their cursed pride. It's hardly in a body's pow'r But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, We're fit to win our daily bread, Auld age ne'er mind a feg; To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, Yet then content could make us blest; The honest heart that's free frae a' However Fortune kick the ba', What tho', like commoners of air, 1 Ramsay.-R. B. |