Dr. Mac,* Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack,

To strike evil-doers wi' terror;

To join faith and sense upon onie pretence,

Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, Town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;

Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief,
And orator Bob† is its ruin.

D'rymple mild, ‡ D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child,

And your life like the new-driv'n snaw,

Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must hae ye,
For preaching that three's ane and twa.

Rumble John, § Rumble John, count the steps wi' a groan,

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd;

Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like adle,
And roar every note of the damn'd.

Simper James, || Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames,

There's a holier chase in your view;

I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead, For puppies like you there's but few

Singet Sawney,¶ Singet Sawney, are ye herding the

Wï' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul,
For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld,* Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the Clerk;

Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, An' if ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Davie Bluster, † Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do muster,

The corps is no nice of recruits;

Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast, If the ass was the king of the brutes.

Jamy Goose, Jamy Goose, ye hae made but toom roost,

In hunting the wicked lieutenant;

But the Doctor's your mark, for the Lord's haly ark, He has cooper'd, and caw'd a wrang pin in't.

Poet Willie, § Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley,
Wi' your liberty's chain, and your wit;
O'er Pegasus's side ye ne'er laid astride,
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t.

Andro Gouk, || Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book, And the book not the waur, let me tell ye!

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig, And ye'll hae a calf's head o'sma' value.

Barr Steenie, * Barr Steenie, what mean ye? what

mean ye?

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,

Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense,
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

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 faes will allow, And your friends they dare grant ye nae mair.

Muirland Jock, ‡ Muirland Jock, when the Lord makes a rock

To crush Common Sense for her sins;

If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit
To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Holy Will, § Holy Will, there was wit i' your sku,
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor;

The timmer is scant, when ye're taen for a saint,
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns,
Ammunition you never can need;

Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther enough,
And your skulls are store-houses o' lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelping turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?

Your Muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie,
She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

* S―n Y-g, of B-r.
Mr. S-d.

† Mr. Sh, of G-n.

An Elder in M-e.

ILMARNOC

LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK,

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS.

O GOUDIE! terror o' the whigs,
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs,
Soor Bigotry, on her last legs,

Girnin looks back,

Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues
Wad seize you quick.

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,
Waes me! she's in a sad condition:
Fly, bring Black Jock, her state physician,
To see her water;

Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion

She'll ne'er get better.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
But now she's got an unco ripple ;
Haste! gie her name up i' the chapel,
Nigh unto death;

See how she fetches at the thrapple,
An' gasps for breath!

Enthusiasm's past redemption,

Gaen in a galloping consumption,
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
Will ever mend her;

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption

Death soon will end her.

'Tis you and Taylor* are the chief
Wha are to blame for this mischief;
But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave,
A toom tar barrel

An' twa red peats wad send relief,
An' end the quarrel.

A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,
A fleeching, fleeth'rin' dedication,
To rouse you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye're surnam'd like His Grace,
Perhaps related to the race;

Then, when I'm tir'd and sae are ye,
Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do maun do, sir, wi' them wha
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;
For me, sae laigh I needna bow,
For, Lord be thankit! I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit! I can beg;
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin',
It's just sic Poet, an' sic Patron.

* Dr. Taylor, of Norwich