Postscript

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies See future wines, rich-cl.u.s.t'ring, rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne're envies, But, blythe and frisky, She eyes her freeborn, martial boys Tak aff their whisky.

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms, When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, The scented groves; Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves!

Their gun's a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o' powther; Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither To stan' or rin, Till skelp--a shot--they're aff, a'throw'ther, To save their skin.

But bring a Scotchman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, such is royal George's will, An' there's the foe!

He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow.

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him; Wi'bluidy hand a welcome gies him; An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him In faint huzzas.

Sages their solemn een may steek, An' raise a philosophic reek, An' physically causes seek, In clime an' season; But tell me whisky's name in Greek I'll tell the reason.

Scotland, my auld, respected mither!

Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, Till, whare ye sit on c.r.a.ps o' heather, Ye tine your dam; Freedom an' whisky gang thegither!

Take aff your dram!

The Ordination

For sense they little owe to frugal Heav'n-- To please the mob, they hide the little giv'n.

Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge an' claw, An' pour your creeshie nations; An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, Of a' denominations; Swith to the Ligh Kirk, ane an' a'

An' there tak up your stations; Then aff to Begbie's in a raw, An' pour divine libations For joy this day.

Curst Common-sense, that imp o' h.e.l.l, Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder;^1 But Oliphant^2 aft made her yell, An' Russell^3 sair misca'd her: This day Mackinlay^4 taks the flail, An' he's the boy will blaud her!

He'll clap a shangan on her tail, An' set the bairns to daud her Wi' dirt this day.

[Footnote 1: Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lihdsay to the "Laigh Kirk."--R.B.]

[Footnote 2: Rev. James Oliphant, minister of Chapel of Ease, Kilmarnock.]

[Footnote 3: Rev. John Russell of Kilmarnock.]

[Footnote 4: Rev. James Mackinlay.]

Mak haste an' turn King David owre, And lilt wi' holy clangor; O' double verse come gie us four, An' skirl up the Bangor: This day the kirk kicks up a stoure; Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, For Heresy is in her pow'r, And gloriously she'll whang her Wi' pith this day.

Come, let a proper text be read, An' touch it aff wi' vigour, How graceless Ham^5 leugh at his dad, Which made Canaan a n.i.g.g.e.r; Or Phineas^6 drove the murdering blade, Wi' wh.o.r.e-abhorring rigour; Or Zipporah,^7 the scauldin jad, Was like a bluidy tiger I' th' inn that day.

There, try his mettle on the creed, An' bind him down wi' caution, That stipend is a carnal weed He taks by for the fashion; And gie him o'er the flock, to feed, And punish each transgression; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin; Spare them nae day.

Now, auld Kilmarnock, c.o.c.k thy tail, An' toss thy horns fu' canty; Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dale, Because thy pasture's scanty; For lapfu's large o' gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale, No gi'en by way o' dainty, But ilka day.

[Footnote 5: Genesis ix. 22.--R. B.]

[Footnote : Numbers xxv. 8.--R. B.]

[Footnote 7: Exodus iv. 52.--R. B]

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, To think upon our Zion; And hing our fiddles up to sleep, Like baby-clouts a-dryin!

Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, And o'er the thairms be tryin; Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep, And a' like lamb-tails flyin Fu' fast this day.

Lang, Patronage, with rod o' airn, Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin; As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, Has proven to its ruin:^8 Our patron, honest man! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewin; An' like a G.o.dly, elect bairn, He's waled us out a true ane, And sound, this day.

Now Robertson^9 harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever; Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they'll think you clever; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a shaver; Or to the Netherton^10 repair, An' turn a carpet weaver Aff-hand this day.

Mu'trie^11 and you were just a match, We never had sic twa drones; Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, Just like a winkin baudrons, And aye he catch'd the t.i.ther wretch, To fry them in his caudrons; But now his Honour maun detach, Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, Fast, fast this day.

[Footnote 8: Rev. Wm. Boyd, pastor of Fenwick.]

[Footnote 9: Rev. John Robertson.]

[Footnote 10: A district of Kilmarnock.]

[Footnote 11: The Rev. John Multrie, a "Moderate," whom Mackinlay succeeded.]

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes She's swingein thro' the city!

Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays!

I vow it's unco pretty: There, Learning, with his Greekish face, Grunts out some Latin ditty; And Common-sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint this day.

But there's Morality himsel', Embracing all opinions; Hear, how he gies the t.i.ther yell, Between his twa companions!

See, how she peels the skin an' fell, As ane were peelin onions!

Now there, they're packed aff to h.e.l.l, An' banish'd our dominions, Henceforth this day.

O happy day! rejoice, rejoice!

Come bouse about the porter!

Morality's demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter: Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys That heresy can torture; They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, And cowe her measure shorter By th' head some day.

Come, bring the t.i.ther mutchkin in, And here's--for a conclusion-- To ev'ry New Light^12 mother's son, From this time forth, Confusion!

If mair they deave us wi' their din, Or Patronage intrusion, We'll light a s.p.u.n.k, and ev'ry skin, We'll rin them aff in fusion Like oil, some day.

[Footnote 12: "New Light" is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has so strenuously defended.--R. B.]

Epistle To James Smith

Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul!

Sweet'ner of Life, and solder of Society!

I owe thee much--Blair.