Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor,
But fool with fool is barbarous civil war.-POPE.

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 ga'e gospel horn a blast,
These five-and-twenty simmers past,
O! dool to tell,

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

O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, How could you raise so vile a bustle, Ye'll see how New Light herds will whistle,

And think it fine:

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

O, sirs! whae'er wad ha'e 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 hale and hearty every shank?

Nae poisoned sour Arminian stank,

He let them taste.

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-O, do I live to see 't!-
Sic famous twa should disagreet,
An' names, like “villain,” “hypocrite,"
Ilk ither gi'en,

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.

drank,

O' sic a feast!

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod,

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

wood,

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,

That aft ha'e 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'.

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 Dalrymple'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.

[The unhappy Praise-God Barebones who is held up to everlasting scorn in this withering satire was one William Fisher, an elder of the parish church at Mauchline. Alluding to this production in his autobiography, the poet, who has just before been referring to the "Twa Herds," says of it,-"Holy Willie's Prayer' next made its appearance, and alarmed the kirksession so much, that they held several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, [and see] if haply any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers." During the lifetime of Burns the piece was handed about merely in manuscript, being issued from the press in the penultimate year of the last century, when it appeared in 1799 for the first time in the little twopenny tracts printed by Stewart and Meikle. A couple of years had scarcely elapsed when, in 1801, the epitaph also made its posthumous appearance. Sir Walter Scott pronounces "Holy Willie's Prayer" a more exquisitely severe satire than any Burns afterwards penned. According to Allan Cunningham, this miserable Pharisee, Fisher of Mauchline, in the end came by his death in a manner anything but godly, drinking one evening more than was advisable, and being found the next morning dead in a ditch by the road-side.]

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

L-d, in the day of vengeance try him!
L—d, visit them wha did employ him!
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em,
Nor hear their prayer ;
But, for thy people's sake, destroy 'em,
And dinna spare!

But, L-d, remember me and mine
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excelled by nane,

An' a' the glory shall be thine,
Amen, amen!

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.

HERE Holy Willie's sair-worn clay

Tak's up its last abode;

His saul has ta'en some other way,I fear the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,—

Poor silly body, see him!

Nae wonder he's as black's the grun,— Observe wha's standing wi' him!

Your brunstane devilship, I see,

Has got him there before ye; But haud your nine-tail cat a wee, Till ance ye 've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,

For pity ye ha'e nane ; Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er,

And mercy's day is gane.

But hear me, sir, de'il as ye are,

Look something to your credit;

A coof like him wad stain your name, If it were kenned ye did it.

THE HOLY FAIR.

[Written in that wonderful springtime of 1786, during which Burns poured forth his effusions with such astonishing fecundity, producing, as he did within that brief interval, not only many a lilting love-song that has since gone the round of the world, but, in addition to this panoramic blending of poetry and satire, his two peerless masterpieces of Halloween" and "The Cotter's Saturday Night." It has been pointed out, with some show of reason, that Burns, who had just before procured through his friend John Richmond a copy of the poems of Fergusson, was evidently indebted to the latter for his idea of Fun introducing him to the Holy Fair, the Edinburgh poet having been himself conducted to the Leith races by a personification of Mirth

A sweet, braw, buskit, bonnie lass, That lap like Hebe o'er the grass.

The scene here described is that yearly celebration of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper, which, in the rural districts of Scotland, is only too literally a sort of typical Vanity Fair in which are intermingled chaffering, prayer, and amusement.]

"A robe of seeming truth and trust

Hid crafty Observation;

And secret hung, with poisoned crust,
The dirk of Defamation:

A mask that like the gorget showed,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion."

Hypocrisy à la Mode

UPON a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature's face is fair,

I walked forth to view the corn,
And snuff the caller air.
The rising sun owre Galston muirs,

Wi' glorious light was glintin';
The hares were hirplin' down the furs ;
The laverocks they were chantin'
Fu' sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam' skelpin' up the way:
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
But ane wi' lyart lining;

The third, that gaed a-wee aback,
Was in the fashion shining,
Fu' gay that day.

The twa appeared like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes;
Their visage withered, lang, an' thin,
An' sour as ony slaes :

The third cam' up, hap-step-an'-lowp,
As light as ony lambie,
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,

As soon as e'er she saw me,
Fu' kind that day

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,
But yet I canna name ye."
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak',
An' tak's me by the hands,
"Ye, for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck
Of a' the Ten Commands

A screed some day.

"My name is Fun-your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye ha'e; An' this is Superstition here,

An' that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,

To spend an hour in daffin': Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair, We will get famous laughin'

At them this day."

Quoth I, "With a' my heart I'll do 't,
I'll get my Sunday's sark on,
An' meet you on the holy spot;
Faith, we'se ha'e fine remarkin'!"

Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,
An' soon I made me ready;

For roads were clad, frae side to side
Wi' mony a wearie body,
In droves that day.

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graich,
Gaed hoddin' by their cotters; [claith,
There, swankies young, in braw braid-
Are springin' o'er the gutters.
The lasses, skelpin' barefit, thrang,

In silks an' scarlets glitter;

Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang, An' farls baked wi' butter,

Fu' crump that day.

When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,
A greedy glower Black Bonnet throws,
An' we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show,

On every side they 're gatherin', Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stoels,

An' some are busy blethrin',

Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the showers,
An' screen our countra gentry,
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores,
Are blinkin' at the entry.

Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades,

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck,
An' there a batch of wabster lads,
Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock,
For fun this day.

Here some are thinkin' on their sins,
An' some upo' their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyled his shins,

Anither sighs an' prays:

On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi' screwed-up grace-proud faces;
On that a set o' chaps at watch,
Thrang winkin' on the lasses

To chairs that day.