Right, sir! your text I’ll prove it true,
Tho’ heretics may laugh;
For instance, there’s yourself just now,
God knows, anuncocalf.
And should some patron be so kind,
As bless you wi’ a kirk,
I doubt na, sir butthen 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 Power,
You e’ershould 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 James,
To hear you roar and rowt,
Few men o’sense will doubt your claims
To rank amangthe nowt.
And when ye’re number’d wi’the dead,
Below a grassy hillock,
With justice they may markyour head-
“Here lies a famous bullock!”