And gie him o'er the Rock to feed, And punish each tranfgrefsion ; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them fufficient threshin, Spare them nae day. VI. An' toss thy horns fu' canty; Because thy pasture's scanty: Shall fill thy crib in plenty, But ilka day. VII. To think upon our Zion; Like baby-clouts a-dryin : And o'er the thairms be tryin ; Fu' fast this day! VIII. Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' airn, Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin, As lately F-nw-ck, fair forfairs, Has proven to it's ruin: lear; Our Patron, honest man! G, He saw mischief was brewin: And like a godly, elect bairn, He's wald us out a true ane, And found this day. IX. But steek your gab for ever ; For there they'll think you clever ; Ye may commence a Shaver; Aff-hand this day X. We never had fic twa drones; Just like a winkin' baudrons ;. To fry them in his caudrons ; But now his Honor maun detach Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, Faft, faft this day. XI. She's swingein thro' the city! she says, There, Learning, with his Greekish face, Grunts out fome Latin ditty; And Common Sense is gaun, To mak' to Jamie Beattie Her plaint this day. XII. Embracing all opinions ; Between his twa companions ! As ane were peelin onions ! Henceforth this day. XIII. Come, bouse about the porter ! Shall here nae mair find quarter : M"*******, R*****, are the boys That Heresy can torture ; They'll gie her on a rape a hoyfe, And cowe her measure shorter By th' head some day, XIV. And here's, for a conclusion, To ev'ry New Light* mother's fon, From this time forth, Confusion : Or Patronage intrusion, Like oil, some day, * New Light is a cant-phrase, in the West of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has de fended so ftrenuously. THE C AL F. To the Rev. Mr. on bis text, MALACHI, ch. iv. vers. 2. • And they shall go forth, and grow up, like CALVES of the stall.' Right, IGHT, Sir! your text I'll prove it true God knows, an unco Calf! And should some Patron be so kind, As bless you wi'a kirk, Ye're still as great a Stirk ! But if the Lover's raptur'd hour, Shall ever be your lot, You e'er should be a Stot! |