O 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 waifs an’ crocks,
About the dykes?

The twa best herds in a’ the wast,
The e’erga’e gospel horna blast
These five an’ twenty simmers past-
Oh, doolto tell!
Hae had a bitter black out-cast
Atweenthemsel’.

O, Moddie,^1man, an’ wordyRussell,^2
How could you raiseso vile a bustle;
Ye’ll see how New-Light herds will whistle,
An’ think it fine!
The Lord’s cause ne’er gatsic 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.

What flock wi’ Moodie’s flock could rank?-
Sae haleand hearty every shank!
Naepoison’d soorArminian stank
He let them taste;
Frae Calvin’s well, aye clear, drank, –
O, sic a feast!

The thummart, willcat, brock, an’ tod,
Weel kend his voice thro’ a’ the wood,
He smell’d their ilka hole an’ road,
Baith out anin;
An’ weelhe lik’d to shed their bluid,
An’ selltheir skin.

What herd like Russell tell’dhis tale;
His voice was heard thro’ muir and dale,
He kenn’d the Lord’s sheep, ilka tail,
Owrea’ the height;
An’ sawginthey 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 o’er the burning dub,
Orheave them in.

Sic twa-O! do I live to see’t?-
Sicfamous twashould disagree’t,
And names, like “villain,” “hypocrite,”
Ilkithergi’en,
While New-Light herds, wi’ laughin spite,
Say neither’s liein!

A’ ye wha tentthe gospel fauld,
There’s Duncan^3deep, an’ Peebles^4shaul,
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,^5
We trust in thee,
That thou wilt work them, hetan’ cauld,
Tillthey agree.

Consider, sirs, how we’re beset;
There’s scarce a new herdthat we get,
But comes frae ‘mang that cursed set,
I winnaname;
I hope fraeheav’n to see them yet
In fiery flame.

Dalrymple^6has been lang our fae,
M’Gill^7has wrought us meikle wae,
An’ that curs’d rascal ca’d M’Quhae,^8
And baiththe Shaws,^9
That afthaemade us black an’ blae,
Wi’ vengefu’ paws.

Auld Wodrow^10langhas hatch’d mischief;
We thought aye death wad bring relief;
But he has gotten, to our grief,
Ane to succeed him,^11
A chieldwha’ll soundly buffour beef;
I meikledread him.

And mony a anethat I could tell,
Wha fainwadopenly rebel,
Forbyturn-coats amangoursel’,
There’s Smith^12for ane;
I doubt he’s buta grey nickquill,
An’ that ye’ll fin’.

O! a’ ye flocks o’er a, the hills,
Bymosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
Come, join your counsel and your skills
To cowethe lairds,
An’ getthe brutes the power themsel’s
To choose their herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
An’ Learning in a woodydance,
An’ that fellcur ca’d Common Sense,
That bites saesair,
Be banished o’er the sea to France:
Let him bark there.

Then Shaw’s an’ D’rymple’s eloquence,
M’Gill’s close nervous excellence

M’Quhae’s pathetic manly sense,
An’guidM’Math,
Wi’Smith, whathro’ the heart can glance,
May a’pack aff.