While at the stook the shearers cow’r
To shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r,
Orin gulravagerinnin scowr
To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the hour
In idle rhyme.

My musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnet
On gown, an’ ban’, an’ douseblack bonnet,
Is grown right eerienow she’s done it,
Lest they should blame her,
An’ rouse their holy thunder on it
An anathem her.

I own ’twas rash, an’ rather hardy,
That I, a simple, country bardie,
Should meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy,
Wha, if they kenme,
Can easy, wi’ a single wordie,
Lowsehell upon me.

But I gaemad at their grimaces,
Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces,
Their three-mile prayers, an’ half-mile graces,
Their raxin conscience,
Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces
Waur nor their nonsense.

There’s Gaw’n, misca’d waurthan a beast,
Wha has mairhonour in his breast
Than mony scores as guid’s the priest
Whasae abus’d him:
And may a bard no crackhis jest
What way they’ve us’d him?

See him, the poor man’s friend in need,
The gentleman in word an’ deed-
An’ shall his fame an’ honour bleed
By worthless, skellums,
An’ not a muse erect her head
To cowethe blellums?

O Pope, had I thy satire’s darts
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
An’ tell aloud
Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts
To cheat the crowd.

God knows, I’m nothe thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing I could be,
But twenty times I rather would be
An atheist clean,
Than under gospel colours hid be
Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass,
Anhonest man may like a lass,
But mean revenge, an’ malice fause
He’ll still disdain,
An’ then cry zeal for gospel laws,
Like some we ken.

They take religion in their mouth;
They talk o’ mercy, grace, an’ truth,
For what?-to gietheir malice skouth
On some puirwight,
An’ hunt him down, owreright and ruth,
To ruin straight.

All hail, Religion! maid divine!
Pardon a muse saemean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line
Thus daurs to name thee;
To stigmatise false friends of thine
Can ne’er defame thee.

Tho’ blotch’t and foul wi’ mony a stain,
An’ far unworthy of thy train,
With trembling voice I tune my strain,
To join with those
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain
In spite of foes:

In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mobs,
In spite o’ undermining jobs,
In spite o’dark banditti stabs
At worthan’ merit,
By scoundrels, even wi’holy robes,
But hellish spirit.

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,
Within thy presbyterial bound
A candid liberal band is found
Of public teachers,
As men, as Christians too, renown’d,
An’ manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam’d;
Sir, in that circle you are fam’d;
An’ some, by whom your doctrine’s blam’d
(Which gies you honour)
Even, sir, bythem your heart’s esteem’d,
An’ winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta’en,
An’if impertinent I’ve been,
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane
Whaseheart ne’er wrang’d ye,
Butto his utmost would befriend
Oughtthat belang’d ye.