A tod meikle waur than the clerk; 1 And if ye canna bite, ye may bark. The Davie Bluster,2 Davie Bluster, cannot harm Royal blood ye might boast, 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 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, To havins and sense, Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 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 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: 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, We are na fou', we're nae that fou', Here are we met, three merry boys, It is the moon, I ken her horn, taste sky |