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 no the 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,
     An honest 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 gie their malice skouth
     On some puir wight,
     An’ hunt him down, owre right and ruth,
     To ruin straight.

     All hail, Religion! maid divine! 
     Pardon a muse sae mean 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 worth an’ 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, by them 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
     Whase heart ne’er wrang’d ye,
     But to his utmost would befriend
     Ought that belang’d ye.

Second Epistle to Davie

     A Brother Poet

     Auld Neibour,
     I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor,
     For your auld-farrant, frien’ly letter;
     Tho’ I maun say’t I doubt ye flatter,
     Ye speak sae fair;
     For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter
     Some less maun sair.

     Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,
     Lang may your elbuck jink diddle,
     To cheer you thro’ the weary widdle
     O’ war’ly cares;
     Till barins’ barins kindly cuddle
     Your auld grey hairs.