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They ither folk, for richt or wrang,
But a' thir things are an emp'y sang
It's a different thing that I demand, Tho' humble as can be
A statement fair in my Maker's hand To a gentleman like me:
A clear account writ fair an' broad,
Or the deevil a ceevil word to God
THEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY CLASS DINNER CLUB
EAR Thamson class, whaure'er I
gang It aye comes ower me wi' a spang: "Lordsake! they Thamson lads- (deil hang Or else Lord mend them)!
An' that wanchancy annual sang
Straucht, at the name, a trusty tyke,
"Weel," an' says you, wi' heavin' breist,
Sae far, sae guid, but what's the neist? Yearly we gaither to the feast,
A' hopefü' men
Yearly we skelloch 'Hang the beast-
My lads, an' what am I to say?
Thrawn like a cuddy:
Her conduc', that to her's a play,
Aft whan I sat an' made my mane,
Ye judged me cauld's a chucky stane-
But saw ye ne'er some pingein' bairn
Less used wi' guidin' horse-shoe airn
Packed aff his lane, by moss an' cairn,
Wae's me, for the puir callant than!
Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan'
Behauld him landit.
Whan on my muse the gate I tak,
To me, the brig o' Heev'n gangs black
"Lordsake! we're aff," thinks I, "but whaur?
An' will she just disgrace? or waur-
Kittle the quaere! But at least
The day I've backed the fashious beast,
An' a' triumphant for your feast,
Hae! there's your sonnet!
EMBRO HIE KIRK
HE Lord Himsel' in former days
TWaled out the proper tunes for praise
An' named the proper kind o' claes
Preceese and in the chief o' ways
He ordered a' things late and air';
An' pit pomatum on their hair
The hale o' life by His commands
An' God's religion in a' lands
Is deid an' rotten.