My ban upon thy venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; And through my lugs gies mony a twang, 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, But thee-thou worst o' a' diseases, O' a' the num'rous human dools, quit, pipes Dr Mac, Dr Mac, You should stretch on a rack, To strike evil doers wi' terror; Is heretic HORRIBLE error. Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; And orator Bob is its ruin. Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, For the foul thief is just at your gate. Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk; And if ye canna bite, ye may bark. Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, The corps is no nice of recruits; If the ass was the king of the brutes. Jamy Goose, Jamy Gooze, 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; 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, And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, 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? 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, Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall (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; Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Skarr, Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gained, Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw: Sir Kobert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, 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 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. |