Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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Address to the Protestant.
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
Address to the Protestant.
Hail! buckler o' auld orthodoxy,
To speak and write ye need na'e proxy;
Yon louns, wha vainly tried to hoax ye
Wi' sophistry,
Wad now, I'm rede, be fain to coax ye
To quat the play.
To speak and write ye need na'e proxy;
Yon louns, wha vainly tried to hoax ye
Wi' sophistry,
Wad now, I'm rede, be fain to coax ye
To quat the play.
Doilt wights! to think that their weak gabblin'
Wad prap the tumblin' Whore o' Bab'lon,
Or that, by dint o' friendlike fablin',
To plant Rome's creeds—
My sooth, ye've garr'd them quat their quibblin',
Wi' hingin' heads.
Wad prap the tumblin' Whore o' Bab'lon,
Or that, by dint o' friendlike fablin',
To plant Rome's creeds—
My sooth, ye've garr'd them quat their quibblin',
Wi' hingin' heads.
Hech! but it gars my elbow yeuk
Wi' joy to pore upon your beuk,
That doth sae weel ilk grousome neuk
O' Popery rummage,
And ilka peacock-pinion pluck
Frae her gay plumage.
Wi' joy to pore upon your beuk,
That doth sae weel ilk grousome neuk
O' Popery rummage,
And ilka peacock-pinion pluck
Frae her gay plumage.
Ne'er, since the days o' Johnny Knox,
Wha rear'd our temple orthodox,
Has auld Papa, the wily fox,
Tholed sic a birsel,
Whilk's garr'd some herds o' his ain flocks
Maist tine their hirsel.
Wha rear'd our temple orthodox,
Has auld Papa, the wily fox,
Tholed sic a birsel,
Whilk's garr'd some herds o' his ain flocks
Maist tine their hirsel.
Sma' thanks his godship, sure, will gi'e
To yon zeal-rash vain-glorious three,
Wha boost sey to set heads wi' thee,
Wha garr'd them rin
Like thistle down out-owre the lea,
Blawn by the win'.
To yon zeal-rash vain-glorious three,
Wha boost sey to set heads wi' thee,
Wha garr'd them rin
Like thistle down out-owre the lea,
Blawn by the win'.
315
Ye've raised bedeen a bonny clamour
Amang the quacks o' ghastly glamour;
His Holiness maun ca' the chamer,
Wi' grim grimace,
To see what rule o' Satan's grammar
Will fit the case.
Amang the quacks o' ghastly glamour;
His Holiness maun ca' the chamer,
Wi' grim grimace,
To see what rule o' Satan's grammar
Will fit the case.
Aha! Saint Peter's legatees,
Wha enter heaven by pick-lock keys,
Will fin' this is nae slight disease,
Purged aff by physic;
There lurks in ilka diocese
A deadly phthisic.
Wha enter heaven by pick-lock keys,
Will fin' this is nae slight disease,
Purged aff by physic;
There lurks in ilka diocese
A deadly phthisic.
Oh happy day, when Europe wide
The deep delusion shall have spied,
And thrown the brazen bands aside,
That's gall'd sae lang,
While Rome's base priestcraft's hellish pride
Triumphant rang.
The deep delusion shall have spied,
And thrown the brazen bands aside,
That's gall'd sae lang,
While Rome's base priestcraft's hellish pride
Triumphant rang.
Haud to the louns, and gi'e them't het!
Rip up ilk knavish beggarplet!
Till, on ilk Catholic chapel yett,
We plain can read,
In letters large, “A Kirk to Let,”
Since Popery's dead!
Rip up ilk knavish beggarplet!
Till, on ilk Catholic chapel yett,
We plain can read,
In letters large, “A Kirk to Let,”
Since Popery's dead!
Scawt Connaught then may shout Huzza!
Nae mair around the chapel wa'
She'll creep, bare-knee'd, wi' pinin' awe,
To won heaven's haven;
She now can read anither law,
Cleared by M'Gavin.
Nae mair around the chapel wa'
She'll creep, bare-knee'd, wi' pinin' awe,
To won heaven's haven;
She now can read anither law,
Cleared by M'Gavin.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |