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A tod meikle waur than the clerk; 1
Though ye downa do skaith,
Ye'll be in at the death,

And if ye canna bite, ye may bark.

The

Davie Bluster,2 Davie Bluster,
For a saint if ye muster,
corps is no nice of recruits;
Yet to worth let's be just,

cannot harm

Royal blood ye might boast,
If the ass was the king of the brutes.

Jamy Goose, Jamy Goose,

Ye hae made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked lieutenant; But the Doctor's your mark, For the L-d's haly ark,

empty praise

He has cooper'd and cawt a wrong pin in't. driven

Poet Willie, Poet Willie,

Gie the Doctor a volley,

1 The clerk was Mr. Gavin Hamilton, whose defence against the charges preferred by Mr. Auld, as elsewhere stated, had ccasioned much trouble to this clergyman.

2 Mr. Grant, Ochiltree.

Mr. Young, Cumnock.

4 The Rev. Dr. Peebles. He had excited some ridicule by ine in a poem on the Centenary of the Revolution:

"And bound in Liberty's endearing chain."

The poetry of this gentleman is said to have been indifferent. He attempted wit in private conversation with no better suc

tess.

Wi' your "Liberty's chain
O'er Pegasus' side

99 and your

wit;

Ye ne'er laid a stride,

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he

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.

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manners

1 Dr. Andrew Mitchell, Monkton. Extreme love of money, and a strange confusion of ideas, characterized this presbyter. In his prayer for the royal family, he would express himself thus: "Bless the King- his Majesty the Queen - her Maj

esty the Prince of Wales."

2 Rev. Stephen Young, Barr.

3 Rev. George Smith, Galston. This gentleman is praised as friendly to Common Sense in The Holy Fair. The offence which was taken at that praise probably imbittered the poet against him.

Of manhood but sma' is your share;

Ye've the figure, 'tis true,

Even your faes will allow,

And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock,

Whom the L-d made 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 skull,

When ye pilfered the alms o' the poor;

The timmer is scant, .

When ye're ta'en for a saunt,

Wha should swing in a rape for a hour.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons,

Seize your spir'tual guns, Ammunition you never can need; Your hearts are the stuff,

timber

rope

1 Rev. John Shepherd, Muirkirk. The statistical account of Muirkirk, contributed by this gentleman to Sir John Sinclair's work, is above the average in intelligence, and very agreeably written. He had, however, an unfortunate habit of saying rude things, which he mistook for wit, and thus laid himself open to Burns's satire.

2 The elder, William Fisher, whom Burns had formerly Scourged.

Will be powther enough,

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns.

Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Though your Muse is a gipsy,

Yet were she e'en tipsy,

She could ca' us nae waur than we are.1

slapping

1 In the present version of this poem, advantage is taken of a few various readings from a copy published by Allan Cunningham, in which there is a curious repetition of the last line of each verse, along with the name of the party addressed. A specimen of this arrangement is given in the following additional stanza, from Allan's copy:

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WILLIE BREWED A PECK O' MAUT.

"This air is [Allan] Masterton's; the song, mine. The occasion of it was this: Mr. William Nicol, 'of the High School, Edinburgh, during the autumn vacation being at Moffat, honest Allan- who was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton - and I went to pay Nicol a visit. We had such a joyous meeting, that Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way, that we should celebrate the business." — B.

O WILLIE brewed a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to pree:
Three blither hearts that lee-lang night
Ye wad na find in Christendie.

We are na fou', we're nae that fou',
But just a drappie in our e'e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And aye we'll taste the barley-bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys, I trow, are we;
And monie a night we've merry been,
And monie mae we hope to be!

It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;

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taste

sky

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