O GOWDIE, terror o the whigs,
Dread o blackcoats and revrend wigs!
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girns an looks back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues
May seize you quick.
Poor gapin, glowrin Superstition!
Waes me, shes in a sad condition:
Fye: bring Black Jock, 1 her state physician,
To see her water;
Alas, theres ground for great suspicion
Shell neer get better.
Enthusiasms past redemption,
Gane in a gallopin consumption:
Not a her quacks, wi a their gumption,
Can ever mend her;
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
Shell soon surrender.
Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
For every hole to get a stapple;
But now she fetches at the thrapple,
An fights for breath;
Haste, gie her name up in the chapel, 2
Near unto death.
Its you an Taylor 3 are the chief
To blame for a this black mischief;
But, could the Lds ain folk get leave,
A toom tar barrel
An twa red peats wad bring relief,
And end the quarrel.
For me, my skills but very sma,
An skill in prose Ive nane ava;
But quietlins-wise, between us twa,
Weel may you speed!
And tho they sud your sair misca,
Neer fash your head.
Een swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!
The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker;
And still mang hands a hearty bicker
O something stout;
It gars an owthors pulse beat quicker,
And helps his wit.
Theres naething like the honest nappy;
Wharell ye eer see men sae happy,
Or women sonsie, saft an sappy,
Tween morn and morn,
As them wha like to taste the drappie,
In glass or horn?
Ive seen me dazed upon a time,
I scarce could wink or see a styme;
Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,
Ought less is little
Then back I rattle on the rhyme,
As glegs a whittle.
Note 1. The Rev. J. Russell, Kilmarnock.R. B. [back]
Note 2. Mr. Russells Kirk.R. B. [back]
Note 3. Dr. Taylor of Norwich.R. B. [back]