Yet to worth let’s be just, royal blood ye might boast,
     If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes,
     Davie Bluster!^12 If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes.

     Irvine Side!  Irvine Side, wi’ your turkey-cock pride
     Of manhood but sma’ is your share: 
     Ye’ve the figure, ’tis true, ev’n your foes will allow,
     And your friends they dare grant you nae mair,
     Irvine Side!^13 And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.

     Muirland Jock! muirland Jock, when the Lord makes a rock,
     To crush common-sense for her sins;
     If ill-manners were wit, there’s no mortal so fit
     To confound the poor Doctor at ance,
     Muirland Jock!^14 To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

     Andro Gowk!  Andro Gowk, ye may slander the Book,
     An’ the Book nought the waur, let me tell ye;
     Tho’ ye’re rich, an’ look big, yet, lay by hat an’ wig,
     An’ ye’ll hae a calf’s—­had o’ sma’ value,
     Andro Gowk!^15 Ye’ll hae a calf’s head o’ sma value.

     Daddy Auld! daddy Auld, there’a a tod in the fauld,
     A tod meikle waur than the clerk;
     Tho’ ye do little skaith, ye’ll be in at the death,
     For gif ye canna bite, ye may bark,
     Daddy Auld!^16 Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

     Holy Will! holy Will, there was wit in your skull,
     When ye pilfer’d the alms o’ the poor;
     The timmer is scant when ye’re taen for a saunt,
     Wha should swing in a rape for an hour,
     Holy Will!^17 Ye should swing in a rape for an hour.

     Calvin’s sons!  Calvin’s sons, seize your spiritual guns,
     Ammunition you never can need;

     [Footnote 12:  David Grant, Ochiltree.—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 13:  George Smith, Galston.—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 14:  John Shepherd Muirkirk.—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 15:  Dr. Andrew Mitchel, Monkton.—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 16:  William Auld, Mauchline; for the clerk, see
      “Holy Willie"s prayer.—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 17:  Vide the “Prayer” of this saint.—­R.B.]

     Your hearts are the stuff will be powder enough,
     And your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead,
     Calvin’s sons!  Your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead.

     Poet Burns! poet Burns, wi’ your priest-skelpin turns,
     Why desert ye your auld native shire? 
     Your muse is a gipsy, yet were she e’en tipsy,
     She could ca’us nae waur than we are,
     Poet Burns!  She could ca’us nae waur than we are.

Presentation Stanzas To Correspondents

     Factor John!  Factor John, whom the Lord made alone,
     And ne’er made anither, thy peer,
     Thy poor servant, the Bard, in respectful regard,
     He presents thee this token sincere,
     Factor John!  He presents thee this token sincere.