Part 15

“Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor, But fool with fool is barbarous civil war,”—Pope.

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?

The twa best herds in a’ the wast, The e’er ga’e gospel horn a blast These five an’ twenty simmers past— Oh, dool to tell! Hae had a bitter black out-cast Atween themsel’.

O, Moddie,^1 man, an’ wordy Russell,^2 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 ne’er gat sic a twistle, Sin’ I hae min’.

O, sirs! whae’er wad hae 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 soor Arminian stank He let them taste; Frae Calvin’s well, aye clear, drank,— O, sic a feast!

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

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

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 disagree’t, And names, like “villain,” “hypocrite,” Ilk ither gi’en, While New-Light herds, wi’ laughin spite, Say neither’s liein!

A’ ye wha tent the gospel fauld, There’s Duncan^3 deep, an’ Peebles^4 shaul, But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,^5 We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, het an’ 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^6 has been lang our fae, M’Gill^7 has wrought us meikle wae, An’ that curs’d rascal ca’d M’Quhae,^8 And baith the Shaws,^9 That aft hae made us black an’ blae, Wi’ vengefu’ paws.

Auld Wodrow^10 lang has hatch’d mischief; We thought aye death wad bring relief; But he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him,^11 A chield wha’ll soundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him.

And mony a ane that I could tell, Wha fain wad openly rebel, Forby turn-coats amang oursel’, There’s Smith^12 for ane; I doubt he’s but a grey nick quill, An’ 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 cowe the lairds, An’ get the brutes the power themsel’s To choose their herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, An’ Learning in a woody dance, An’ that fell cur ca’d Common Sense, That bites sae sair, Be banished o’er the sea to France: Let him bark there.

Then Shaw’s an’ D’rymple’s eloquence, M’Gill’s close nervous excellence

M’Quhae’s pathetic manly sense, An’ guid M’Math, Wi’ Smith, wha thro’ the heart can glance, May a’ pack aff.

1785

Epistle To Davie, A Brother Poet

January

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, An’ bar the doors wi’ driving snaw, An’ hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time, An’ spin a verse or twa o’ rhyme, In hamely, westlin jingle. While frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla lug, I grudge a wee the great-folk’s gift, That live sae bien an’ snug: I tent less, and want less Their roomy fire-side; But hanker, and canker, To see their cursed pride.

It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar’d; How best o’ chiels are whiles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair’t; But, Davie, lad, ne’er fash your head, Tho’ we hae little gear; We’re fit to win our daily bread, As lang’s we’re hale and fier: “Mair spier na, nor fear na,”^1 Auld age ne’er mind a feg; The last o’t, the warst o’t Is only but to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e’en, When banes are craz’d, and bluid is thin, Is doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest; Ev’n then, sometimes, we’d snatch a taste Of truest happiness. The honest heart that’s free frae a’ Intended fraud or guile, However Fortune kick the ba’, Has aye some cause to smile; An’ mind still, you’ll find still, A comfort this nae sma’; Nae mair then we’ll care then, Nae farther can we fa’.

What tho’, like commoners of air, We wander out, we know not where, But either house or hal’, Yet nature’s charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds whistle clear, With honest joy our hearts will bound, To see the coming year: On braes when we please, then, We’ll sit an’ sowth a tune; Syne rhyme till’t we’ll time till’t, An’ sing’t when we hae done.

It’s no in titles nor in rank; It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank, To purchase peace and rest: It’s no in makin’ muckle, mair; It’s no in books, it’s no in lear, To make us truly blest: If happiness hae not her seat An’ centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest; Nae treasures, nor pleasures Could make us happy lang; The heart aye’s the part aye That makes us right or wrang.