Part 82

Hear, Land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat’s;— If there’s a hole in a’ your coats, I rede you tent it: A chield’s amang you takin notes, And, faith, he’ll prent it:

If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight, O’ stature short, but genius bright, That’s he, mark weel; And wow! he has an unco sleight O’ cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, Or kirk deserted by its riggin, It’s ten to ane ye’ll find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi’ deils, they say, Lord save’s! colleaguin At some black art.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha’ or chaumer, Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour, And you, deep-read in hell’s black grammar, Warlocks and witches, Ye’ll quake at his conjuring hammer, Ye midnight bitches.

It’s tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa’n than fled; But now he’s quat the spurtle-blade, And dog-skin wallet, And taen the—Antiquarian trade, I think they call it.

He has a fouth o’ auld nick-nackets: Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets, Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, A towmont gude; And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets, Before the Flood.

Of Eve’s first fire he has a cinder; Auld Tubalcain’s fire-shool and fender; That which distinguished the gender O’ Balaam’s ass: A broomstick o’ the witch of Endor, Weel shod wi’ brass.

Forbye, he’ll shape you aff fu’ gleg The cut of Adam’s philibeg; The knife that nickit Abel’s craig He’ll prove you fully, It was a faulding jocteleg, Or lang-kail gullie.

But wad ye see him in his glee, For meikle glee and fun has he, Then set him down, and twa or three Gude fellows wi’ him: And port, O port! shine thou a wee, And Then ye’ll see him!

Now, by the Pow’rs o’ verse and prose! Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!— Whae’er o’ thee shall ill suppose, They sair misca’ thee; I’d take the rascal by the nose, Wad say, “Shame fa’ thee!”

Epigram On Francis Grose The Antiquary

The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying; But when he approached where poor Francis lay moaning, And saw each bed-post with its burthen a-groaning, Astonish’d, confounded, cries Satan—“By God, I’ll want him, ere I take such a damnable load!”

The Kirk Of Scotland’s Alarm

A Ballad.

Tune—“Come rouse, Brother Sportsman!”

Orthodox! orthodox, who believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience: A heretic blast has been blown in the West, “That what is no sense must be nonsense,” Orthodox! That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Doctor Mac! Doctor Mac, you should streek on a rack, To strike evil-doers wi’ terror: To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence, Was heretic, damnable error, Doctor Mac!^1 ’Twas heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr! town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewing,^2 Provost John^3 is still deaf to the Church’s relief, And Orator Bob^4 is its ruin, Town of Ayr! Yes, Orator Bob is its ruin.

D’rymple mild! D’rymple mild, tho’ your heart’s like a child, And your life like the new-driven snaw, Yet that winna save you, auld Satan must have you, For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa, D’rymple mild!^5 For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa.

Rumble John! rumble John, mount the steps with a groan, Cry the book is with heresy cramm’d; Then out wi’ your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle, And roar ev’ry note of the damn’d. Rumble John!^6 And roar ev’ry note of the damn’d.

Simper James! simper James, leave your fair Killie dames, There’s a holier chase in your view: I’ll lay on your head, that the pack you’ll soon lead, For puppies like you there’s but few, Simper James!^7 For puppies like you there’s but few.

Singet Sawnie! singet Sawnie, are ye huirdin the penny, Unconscious what evils await? With a jump, yell, and howl, alarm ev’ry soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate. Singet Sawnie!^8 For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Poet Willie! poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, Wi’ your “Liberty’s Chain” and your wit; O’er Pegasus’ side ye ne’er laid a stride, Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh—t. Poet Willie!^9 Ye but smelt man, the place where he sh—t.

Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye? If ye meddle nae mair wi’ the matter, Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense, Wi’ people that ken ye nae better, Barr Steenie!^10 Wi’people that ken ye nae better.

Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose, ye made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked Lieutenant; But the Doctor’s your mark, for the Lord’s holy ark, He has cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t, Jamie Goose!^11 He has cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t.

Davie Bluster! Davie Bluster, for a saint ye do muster, The corps is no nice o’ recruits;

Yet to worth let’s be just, royal blood ye might boast, If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes, Davie Bluster!^12 If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes.

Irvine Side! Irvine Side, wi’ your turkey-cock pride Of manhood but sma’ is your share: Ye’ve the figure, ’tis true, ev’n your foes will allow, And your friends they dare grant you nae mair, Irvine Side!^13 And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.