Зображення сторінки
PDF
ePub
[graphic]
[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

My ban upon thy venom'd stang,

That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;

And through my lugs gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance;

Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,

Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,

Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes;

Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;

But thee-thou worst o' a' diseases,
Aye mocks our groan!

O' a' the num'rous human dools,
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!

quit, pipes

[merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]
[blocks in formation]

Dr Mac, Dr Mac,

You should stretch on a rack,

To strike evil doers wi' terror;
To join faith and sense
Upon any pretence

Is heretic HORRIBLE error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr,
It was mad, I declare,

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;
Provost John is still deaf
To the church's relief,

And orator Bob is its ruin.

Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney,
Are ye huirding the penny,
Unconscious what evils await;

Wi' a jump, yell, and howl,
Alarm every soul,

For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld,
There's a tod in the fauld,

A tod meikle waur than the clerk;
Though ye downa do skaith,
Ye'll be in at the death,

And if ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster,
For a saint if ye muster,

The corps is no nice of recruits;
Yet to worth lets be just,
Royal blood ye might boast,

If the ass was the king of the brutes.

Jamy Goose, Jamy Gooze,
Ye hae made but toom roose,

who

blown

(Rev. Dr M'Gill)

(Robert Aiken,

(Rev. Alex. Moodie) hoarding

(Rev. Mr Auld) fox, fold

much worse

cannot harm

(Mr Grant, Ochiltree)

(Mr Young, Cumnock) empty praiso

In hunting the wicked lieutenant;
But the Doctor's your mark,
For the KIRK's haly ark,

He has cooper'd and cawt a wrong pin in't.

Andro Gouk, Andro Gouk,

Ye may slander the book,

holy

driven

(Rev. Dr Mitchell, Monkton)

And the book not the waur, let me tell yc;

Ye are rich, and look big,
But lay by hat and wig,

And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value.

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie,
What mean ye-what mean ye?
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence
To havins and sense,

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

Irvine-side, Irvine-side,

Wi' your turkey-cock pride,

Of manhood but sma' is your share;

Ye've the figure, 'tis true,

Even your faes will allow,

worse

(Rev. Mr Young, Barr)

more

manners

know, no

(Rev. Mr Smith, Galston)

And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock,

Whom HIS PRIDE made a rock

To crush Common Sense for her sins,

If ill manners were wit,

There's no mortal so fit

To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Holy Will, Holy Will,

There was wit i' your skull,

When ye pilfered the alms o' the poor;

The timmer is scant,

When ye're ta'en for a saunt,

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons,

Seize your spir'tual guns,

Ammunition you never can need;

Your hearts are the stuff,

Will be powther enough,

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns,

Wi' your priest-skelping turns,

Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Though your Muse is a gipsy,

Yet were she e'en tipsy,

She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

foes more

(Rev. Mr Shepherd, [Muirkirk)

once

timber

saint

rope

powder

call, worse

THE WHISTLE.

I SING of a whistle, a whistle of worth,

I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North,
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king
And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,

The god of the bottle sends down from his hall

[ocr errors]

(see Ossian)

This whistle's your challenge-to Scotland get o'er,

And drink them DEAD DRUNK, sir! or ne'er see me more!"

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,

What champions ventured, what champions fell;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Skarr,
Unmatched at the bottle, unconquered in war,
He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea--
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gained,
Which now in his house has for ages remained;
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renewed.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw:
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skilled in old coins;
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.
Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try which was the man.
"By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddel replies,
"Before I surrender so glorious a prize,
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er."

Sir Kobert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,
But he ne'er turned his back on his foe-or his friend,
Said. Toss down the whistle, the prize of the field,
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame
Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame.

A bard was selected to witness the fray,

And tell future ages the feats of the day;

A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,

And wished that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

« НазадПродовжити »