O, sirs! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,
Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit,

To wear the plaid,

But by the brutes themselves eleckit,

To be their guide.

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank, Sae hale and hearty every shank,

Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank,

He let them taste,

Frae Calvin's well, ay clear they drank,— O sic a feast!

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, He smelt their ilka hole and road,

Baith out and in,

And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,

And sell their skin.

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,

And saw gin they were sick or hale,

At the first sight.

88

THE POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS.

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 disagreet,

An' names, like villain, hypocrite,

Ilk ither gi'en,

While new New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite,

Say neither's liein'!

A' ye wha tent the gospell faud,

There's D―n, 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 ca'd M'-e,

And baith the Shaws,

That aft ha'e made us black and blae,

Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld W-w 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,

And 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'-e's pathetic manly sense,

And guid M'Math,

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

May a' pack aff.

"The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light,"

66

was a burlesque lamentation reverend Calvinists, both of

my

says Burns to Dr. Moore, on a quarrel between two them dramatis personæ in Holy Fair.' I had a notion myself that the piece had some merit; but to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend who was very fond of such things, and told him I could not guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clear. With a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of applause," The actors in this indeecnt drama were-Moodie, Minister of Riccartoun, and Russell, helper to the Minister of Kilmarnock, who afterwards had a harmonious call to Stirling. They were apostles of the Old Light, but this did not hinder controversy, and whilst indulging in a discussion on Effectual Calling, on their way home from the Monday

sermon of a Sacrament, they quarrelled by the way, and, as some assert, proceeded to blows. The first intimation which the world of Kyle had of this "bitter black outcast," was from Russell himself, who was seen approaching the house of Barlieth at full gallop.-" Wha can this be riding in sic a daft-like manner?" exclaimed one. "It's awfu' like our ain Minister, honest man ;" said another." That can never be," said John Parker, a decorous man and an elder-" and yet it's him. Na, I'll no believe my ain een!" The doubts of his elder were cut short by the Minister himself halting, and explaining the cause of his galloping. On inquiring long afterwards of a person who was present with Parker what Russell said, he replied that he heard him say something about the unsound doctrine of Moodie; how hot words ensued, and he was obliged to give his brother's horse a crack across the nose to put it and its rider back- -“But ye wadna believe me now, if I were to tell you that I think he missed the horse, and hit the Minister. Black Russel was na sparing!"

These satiric sallies were not unavenged by the children of the Old Light. They called Burns unbeliever, profane scoffer, and ungodly rhymer-epithets of influence in those days: and they moreover represented, that the Bachelor's Club of Mauchline, where the Poet presided, met for other than moral purposes. Their language was reported as loose, their toasts indecorous, and one of the elders, it is said, having caught up two or three wild stanzas scattered by Burns at one of those mirthful meetings, kept repeating them wherever he went, saying, at the end of every verse, "Oh, what a wild lad! A lost sheep-a lost sheep!"