LITMIR.BIZ

      Orthodox, orthodox,

      Wha believe in John Knox,

      Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:

      There’s a heretic blast

      Has been blawn in the wast,

      That what is no sense must be nonsense.

      Dr. Mac,[77] Dr. Mac,

      You should stretch on a rack,

      To strike evil doers wi’ terror;

      To join faith and sense

      Upon ony pretence,

      Is heretic, damnable error.

      Town of Ayr, town of Ayr,

      It was mad, I declare,

      To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewing;

      Provost John[78] is still deaf

      To the church’s relief,

      And orator Bob[79] is its ruin.

      D’rymple mild,[80] D’rymple mild,

      Thro’ your heart’s like a child,

      And your life like the new driven snaw,

      Yet that winna save ye,

      Auld Satan must hav ye,

      For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa.

      Rumble John,[81] Rumble John,

      Mount 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 danm’d.

      Simper James,[82] 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,[83] Singet Sawney,

      Are ye herding the penny,

      Unconscious what evil await?

      Wi’ a jump, yell, and howl,

      Alarm every soul,

      For the foul thief is just at your gate.

      Daddy Auld,[84] Daddy Auld,

      There’s a tod in the fauld,

      A tod meikle waur than the clerk;

      Though yo can do little skaith,

      Ye’ll be in at the death,

      And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

      Davie Bluster,[85] 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,[86] Jamy Goose,

      Ye ha’e made but toom roose,

      In hunting the wicked lieutenant;

      But the Doctor’s your mark,

      For the L—d’s haly ark;

      He has cooper’d and cawd a wrang pin in’t.

      Poet Willie,[87] Poet Willie,

      Fie the Doctor a volley,

      Wi’ your liberty’s chain and your wit;

      O’er Pegasus’ side

      Ye ne’er laid astride,

      Ye but smelt, man, the place where he –.

      Andro Gouk[88], 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 ha’e a calf’s head o’ sma’ value.

      Barr Steenie,[89] Barr Steenie,

      What mean ye, what mean ye?

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

      Ye may ha’e some pretence

      To

Скачать книгу