Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert Burns

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       Baith out an in;

       An' weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,

       An' sell their skin.

       What herd like Russell tell'd his tale;

       His voice was heard thro' muir and dale,

       He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,

       Owre a' the height;

       An' saw gin they were sick or hale,

       At 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^3 deep, an' Peebles^4 shaul,

       But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,^5

       We trust in thee,

       That thou wilt work them, het an' 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.

       [Footnote 3: Dr. Robert Duncan of Dundonald.]

       [Footnote 4: Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-on-Ayr.]

       [Footnote 5: Rev. Wm. Auld of Mauchline.]

       Dalrymple^6 has been lang our fae,

       M'Gill^7 has wrought us meikle wae,

       An' that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae,^8

       And baith the Shaws,^9

       That aft hae made us black an' blae,

       Wi' vengefu' paws.

       Auld Wodrow^10 lang has hatch'd mischief;

       We thought aye death wad bring relief;

       But he has gotten, to our grief,

       Ane to succeed him,^11

       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^12 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 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.

       Then Shaw's an' D'rymple's eloquence,

       M'Gill's close nervous excellence

       [Footnote 6: Rev. Dr. Dalrymple of Ayr.]

       [Footnote 7: Rev. Wm. M'Gill, colleague of Dr. Dalrymple.]

       [Footnote 8: Minister of St. Quivox.]

       [Footnote 9: Dr. Andrew Shaw of Craigie, and Dr. David Shaw of

       Coylton.]

       [Footnote 10: Dr. Peter Wodrow of Tarbolton.]

       [Footnote 11: Rev. John M'Math, a young assistant and successor

       to Wodrow.]

       [Footnote 12: Rev. George Smith of Galston.]

       M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense,

       An' guid M'Math,

       Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,

       May a' pack aff.