But lordly will, I hold it still For a' that, &c. IV. In raptures sweet this hour we meet, For a' that, &c. V. vies on o bied & am They've ta'en me in, and a' that; For a' that, and a' that, And twice as muckle's a' that; RECITATIVO. So sung the bard, and Nansie's wa's Shook wi' a thunder of applause, Re-echo'd frae each mouth: They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their duds, They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, To quench their lowan drouth. Then owre again, the jovial thrang To lowse his pack, and wale a sang, A A ballad o' the best. He, rising, rejoicing Between his twa Deborahs, Looks round him, and found them AIR. Tune" JOLLY MORTALS FILL YOUR GLASSES." I. See the smoking bowl before us, CHORUS. A fig for those by law protected! II. What is title? what is treasure? If we lead a life of pleasure, III. With the ready trick and fable, Round we wander all the day; Does the train-attended carriage THE KIRK'S ALARM.* A SATIRE. 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,+ Dr Mac, you should stretch on a rack, To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad I declare, Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye, For preaching that three's ane and twa. * This Poem was written a short time after the publication of Dr M'Gill's Essay. + Dr M Gill. VOL. III. R -t A-k-n. § Mr D-m-le. Rumble John,* 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 damn'd. Simper James,† Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chace in your view ; I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead, For puppie's like you there's but few. Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, are ye herding the penny, Unconscious what evils await; Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld,there's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the Clerk; Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. Davic Bluster,|| 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. Mr R-ss-ll. + Mr MK-y. Mr My § Mr A-d. Mr Gt of O-l-me, |