The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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      An’ 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 ay 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 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

       To cow the lairds,

       And get the brutes the 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.