The Complete Works. Robert Burns

      An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw,

      Of a’ denominations,

      Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an’ a’,

      An’ there tak up your stations;

      Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw,

      An’ pour divine libations

      For joy this day.

      Curst Common-Sense, that imp o’ hell,

      Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder;[14]

      But Oliphant aft made her yell,

      An’ Russell sair misca’d her;

      This day Mackinlay taks the flail,

      And he’s the boy will blaud her!

      He’ll clap a shangan on her tail,

      An’ set the bairns to daud her

      Wi’ dirt this day.

      Mak haste an’ turn King David owre,

      An’ lilt wi’ holy clangor;

      O’ double verse come gie us four,

      An’ skirl up the Bangor:

      This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure,

      Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,

      For Heresy is in her pow’r,

      And gloriously she’ll whang her

      Wi’ pith this day.

      Come, let a proper text be read,

      An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour,

      How graceless Ham[15] leugh at his dad,

      Which made Canaan a niger;

      Or 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

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