But now his Honour maun detach,
Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons,

Fast, fast, this day.

XI.

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes

She's swingein thro' the city;

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

I vow its unco pretty :

There, Learning, with his Greekish face,

Grunts out some Latin ditty;

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 banish'd our dominions,

Henceforth this day.

*

XIII.

O happy day! rejoice, rejoice!

Come bouse about the porter! Morality's demure decoys

Shall here nae mair find quarter : M********, R*****, are the boys That Heresy can torture; They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse,

And cow her measure shorter

By th' head some day.

XIV.

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,
And here's, for a conclusion,
To every New-light mother's son,
From this time forth, Confusion:
If mair they deave us with 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.

New-light is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously.

THE

CALF.

TO THE REVEREND MR

On his Text MALACHI, ch. iv. ver. 2. "And they shall

66

go forth, and grow up, like CALVES of the stall.”

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 Pow'r,
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 J-
To hear you roar and rowte,

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims
To rank amang 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 !

ADDRESS

ΤΟ

THE DEIL.

"O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
"That led th' embattled Seraphim to war-"

MILTON.

O THOU! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

Clos'd under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,

Ev'n to a Deil,