THE TWA HERDS;*

OR, THE HOLY TULZIE.

Он a' ye pious, godly flocks,
Weel fed on pastures orthodox,

Wha now will keep you frae the fox,

Or worrying tykes,

Or wha will tent the waves and crocks

About the dykes?

The twa best herds in a' the wast,
That e'er gave gospel horn a blast,
These five-and-twenty simmers past,
O! dool to tell,

Hae had a bitter, black out-cast
Atween themsel'.

O Moodie, man, and wordy Russell,
How could you raise so vile a bustle,
You'll see how New-Lightt herds will whistle,
And think it fine:

The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle
Sin' I hae min'.

O sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit,
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit,

To wear the plaid,

But by the brutes themselves eleckit,

To be their guide.

* Moodie, minister of Riccarton, and Russell, assistant minister of Kilmarnock. A controversy between them ended in blows.

The Old Lights' were the rigid Calvinists, opposed to and by the New.'

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank,
Sae hale and hearty every shank?
Nae poisoned sour Arminian stank,
He let them taste.

Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank,-
O' sic a feast!

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, Weel kenned his voice through a' the wood, He smelt their ilka hole and road,

Baith out and in,

And weel he liked to shed their bluid,
And sell their skin.

What herd like Russell telled his tale?
His voice was heard through muir and dale,
He kenned the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,
O'er a' the height,

And saw gin they were sick or hale,
At the first sight.

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,
Or nobly fling the gospel club,

And New-Light herds could nicely drub,
Or pay their skin;

Could shake them owre the burning dub,

Or heave them in.

Sic twa-oh, do I live to see 't!-
Sic famous twa should disagreet,
names, like 'villain,' 'hypocrite,'
Ilk ither gien,

An'

While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite, Say neither's liein'!

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld,
There's Duncan deep, and Peebles shaul,
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,

We trust in thee,

That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, Till they agree.

Consider, sirs, how we're beset;

There's scarce a new herd that we get
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set
I winna name⚫

I hope frae heaven to see them yet
In fiery flame.

Dalrymple has been lang our fae,
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae,
And that cursed rascal ca'd M'Quhae,*
And baith the Shaws, t

That aft hae made us black and blae
Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Wodrow ‡ lang has hatched mischief;
We thought aye death wad bring relief,
But he has gotten, to our grief,

Ane to succeed him,

A chiel wha'll soundly buff our beef;

I meikle dread him.

And mony a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel,
Forbye turncoats amang oursel',

There's Smith for ane;

I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill,

An' that ye 'll fin'.

* Minister of St. Quivox.

Drs. Andrew Shaw and David Shaw.
Dr. Peter Wodrow.

O! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills,

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
Come, join your counsel and your skills
To cowe the lairds,

And get the brutes the powers themsel's
To choose their herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
And Learning in a woody dance,
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,

Be banished o'er the sea to France:

Let him bark there.

Then Shaw's and D'lrymple's eloquence,
M'Gill's close nervous excellence,
M'Quhae's pathetic, manly sense,

And guid M'Math,

Wi' Smith, wha through the heart can glance,
May a' pack aff.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.*

O THOU, wha in the heav'ns dost dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best thysel',

Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell,

A' for thy glory,

And no for ony guid or ill

They've done afore thee!

'Holy Willie' was William Fisher, a hypocritical farmer, leading elder of Mauchline parish. He had persecuted Gavin Hamilton, for setting a beggar to work on Sunday in his garden. 'Holy Willie' robbed the poor, and died drunk in a ditch.

I bless and praise thy matchless might, When thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here, afore thy sight,

For gifts an' grace,

A burnin' an' a shinin' light

To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation?
I, wha deserve sic just damnation

For broken laws

Five thousand years 'fore my creation, Through Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell,
You might hae plunged me into hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin' lake,

Where damned devils roar and yell,
Chained to a stake.

Yet I am here, a chosen sample,
To show thy grace is great and ample;
I'm here a pillar in thy temple,

Strong as a rock,

A guide, a buckler, an example

To a' thy flock.

O Lord! thou kens what zeal I bear, When drinkers drink, and swearers swear, And singing there, and dancing here,

Wi' great and sma';

For I am keepit by thy fear,

Free frae them a'.