The Poetry of Robert Burns :: :: University of Virginia Library

O a' ye pious godly flocks,
Weel fed on pastures orthodox,
Wha now will keep you frae the fox
Or worrying tykes?
Or wha will tent the waifs an' crocks
About the dykes?

II

The twa best herds in a' the wast,
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast

These five an' twenty simmers past—
O, dool to tell!—
Hae had a bitter, black out-cast
Atween themsel.

III

O Moodie, man, an' wordy Russell,
How could you raise so vile a bustle?
Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle,
An' think it fine!
The Lord's cause gat na sic a twistle
Sin' I hae min'.

IV

O Sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit?
Ye wha were no by lairds respeckit
To wear the plaid,
But by the brutes themselves eleckit
To be their guide!

V

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank,
Sae hale an' hearty every shank?
Nae poison'd, soor Arminian stank
He let them taste;
But Calvin's fountainhead they drank—
O, sic a feast!

VI

The thummart, wilcat, brock, an' tod
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood;
He smell'd their ilka hole an' road,
Baith out and in;
An' weel he lik'd to shed their bluid
An' sell their skin.

VII

What herd like Russell tell'd his tale?
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale;
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,
O'er a' the height;
An' tell'd gin they were sick or hale
At the first sight.

VIII

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub;
Or nobly swing the gospel club;
Or New-Light herds could nicely drub
And pay their skin;
Or hing them o'er the burning dub
Or heave them in.

IX

Sic twa—O, do I live to see't?—
Sic famous twa sud disagree't,

An' names like villain, hypocrite,
Ilk ither gi'en,
While New-Light herds wi' laughin spite
Say neither's liein!

X

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld,
Thee Duncan deep, an' Peebles shaul',
But chiefly great apostle Auld,
We trust in thee,
That thou wilt work them hot an' cauld
Till they agree!

XI

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!

XII

Dalrymple has been lang our fae,
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae,
An' that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae,
An' baith the Shaws,
That aft hae made us black an' blae
Wi' vengefu' paws.

XIII

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.

XIV

An' monie mae that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel,
Forby turn-coats amang oursel:
There's Smith for ane—
I doubt he's but a greyneck still,
An' that ye'll fin'!

XV

O a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills,
By mosses, meadows, moors, an' fells,
Come, join your counsel and your skills
To cowe the lairds,
An' get the brutes the power themsels
To chuse their herds!

XVI

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
An' Learning in a woody dance,

An' that fell cur ca'd Common-sense,
That bites sae sair,
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France—
Let him bark there!

XVII

Then Shaw's an' D'rymple's eloquence,
M'Gill's close, nervous excellence,
M'Quhae's pathetic, manly sense,
An' guid M'Math
Wha thro' the heart can brawly glance,
May a' pack aff!