LITMIR.BIZ

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Phineas[16] drove the murdering blade,

      Wi’ wh-re-abhorring rigour;

      Or Zipporah,[17] the scauldin’ jad,

      Was like a bluidy tiger

      I’ th’ inn that day.

      There, try his mettle on the creed,

      And bind him down wi’ caution,

      That stipend is a carnal weed

      He taks but for the fashion;

      And gie him o’er the flock, to feed,

      And punish each transgression;

      Especial, rams that cross the breed,

      Gie them sufficient threshin’,

      Spare them nae day.

      Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail,

      And toss thy horns fu’ canty;

      Nae mair thou’lt rowte out-owre the dale,

      Because thy pasture’s scanty;

      For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kail

      Shall fill thy crib in plenty,

      An’ runts o’ grace the pick and wale,

      No gi’en by way o’ dainty,

      But ilka day.

      Nae mair by Babel’s streams we’ll weep,

      To think upon our Zion;

      And hing our fiddles up to sleep,

      Like baby-clouts a-dryin’:

      Come, screw the pegs, wi’ tunefu’ cheep,

      And o’er the thairms be tryin’;

      Oh, rare! to see our elbucks wheep,

      An’ a’ like lamb-tails flyin’

      Fu’ fast this day!

      Lang Patronage, wi’ rod o’ airn,

      Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoin’,

      As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,

      Has proven to its ruin:

      Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,

      He saw mischief was brewin’;

      And like a godly elect bairn

      He’s wal’d us out a true ane,

      And sound this day.

      Now, Robinson, harangue nae mair,

      But steek your gab for ever.

      Or try the wicked town of Ayr,

      For there they’ll think you clever;

      Or, nae reflection on your lear,

      Ye may commence a shaver;

      Or to the Netherton repair,

      And turn a carpet-weaver

      Aff-hand this day.

      Mutrie and you were just a match

      We never had sic twa drones:

      Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,

      Just like a winkin’ baudrons:

      And ay’ he catch’d the tither wretch,

      To fry them in his caudrons;

      But now his honour maun detach,

      Wi’ a’ his brimstane squadrons,

      Fast, fast this day.

      See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faes

      She’s swingein’ through the city;

      Hark, how the nine-tail’d cat she plays!

      I vow it’s unco pretty:

      There, Learning, with his Greekish face,

      Grunts out some Latin ditty;

      And Common Sense is gaun, she says,

      To mak to Jamie Beattie

      Her plaint this day.

      But there’s Morality himsel’,

      Embracing all opinions;

      Hear, how he gies the tither yell,

      Between his twa companions;

      See, how she peels the skin an’ fell.

      As ane were peelin’ onions!

      Now there—they’re packed aff to hell,

      And banished our dominions,

      Henceforth this day.

      O, happy day! rejoice, rejoice!

      Come bouse about the porter!

      Morality’s demure decoys

      Shall here nae mair find quarter:

      Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys,

      That Heresy can torture:

      They’ll gie her on a rape a hoyse,

      And cowe her measure shorter

      By th’ head some day.

      Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,

      And here’s for a conclusion,

      To every New Light[18] mother’s son,

      From this time forth Confusion:

      If mair they deave us wi’ their din,

      Or Patronage intrusion,

      We’ll light a spunk, and ev’ry skin,

      We’ll rin them aff in fusion

      Like oil, some day.

      XXII. THE CALF. TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN

      On his text, Malachi, iv. 2—“And ye shall go forth, and grow up as Calves of the stall.”

      [The laugh which this little poem raised against Steven was a loud one. Burns composed it during the sermon to which it relates and repeated it to Gavin Hamilton, with whom he happened on that day to dine. The Calf—for the name it seems stuck—came to London, where the younger brother of Burns heard him preach in Covent Garden Chapel, in 1796.]

      Right, Sir! your text I’ll prove it true,

      Though Heretics may laugh;

      For instance; there’s yoursel’ just now,

      God knows, an unco Calf!

      And should some patron be so kind,

      As bless you wi’ a kirk,

      I doubt na, Sir, but then we’ll find,

      Ye’re still as great a Stirk.

      But, if the lover’s raptur’d hour

      Shall ever be your lot,

      Forbid it, ev’ry heavenly power,

      You e’er should be a stot!

      Tho’, when some kind, connubial dear,

      Your but-and-ben adorns,

      The like has been that you may wear

      A noble head of horns.

      And in your lug, most reverend James,

      To hear you roar and rowte,

      Few men o’ sense will doubt your claims

      To rank among the nowte.

      And when ye’re number’d wi’ the dead,

      Below a grassy hillock,

      Wi’ justice they may mark your head—

      “Here lies a famous Bullock!”

      XXIII. TO JAMES SMITH

      “Friendship!

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