But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,
     Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
     Say, such is royal George’s will,
     An’ there’s the foe! 
     He has nae thought but how to kill
     Twa at a blow.

     Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
     Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him;
     Wi’bluidy hand a welcome gies him;
     An’ when he fa’s,
     His latest draught o’ breathin lea’es him
     In faint huzzas.

     Sages their solemn een may steek,
     An’ raise a philosophic reek,
     An’ physically causes seek,
     In clime an’ season;
     But tell me whisky’s name in Greek
     I’ll tell the reason.

     Scotland, my auld, respected mither! 
     Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather,
     Till, whare ye sit on craps o’ heather,
     Ye tine your dam;
     Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither! 
     Take aff your dram!

The Ordination

     For sense they little owe to frugal Heav’n—­
     To please the mob, they hide the little giv’n.

     Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge an’ claw,
     An’ pour your creeshie nations;
     An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw,
     Of a’ denominations;
     Swith to the Ligh Kirk, ane an’ a’
     An’ there tak up your stations;
     Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw,
     An’ pour divine libations
     For joy this day.

     Curst Common-sense, that imp o’ hell,
     Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder;^1
     But Oliphant^2 aft made her yell,
     An’ Russell^3 sair misca’d her: 
     This day Mackinlay^4 taks the flail,
     An’ he’s the boy will blaud her! 
     He’ll clap a shangan on her tail,
     An’ set the bairns to daud her
     Wi’ dirt this day.

     [Footnote 1:  Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the
     admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lihdsay to the
     “Laigh Kirk.”—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 2:  Rev. James Oliphant, minister of Chapel of Ease,
     Kilmarnock.]

     [Footnote 3:  Rev. John Russell of Kilmarnock.]

     [Footnote 4:  Rev. James Mackinlay.]

     Mak haste an’ turn King David owre,
     And lilt wi’ holy clangor;
     O’ double verse come gie us four,
     An’ skirl up the Bangor: 
     This day the kirk kicks up a stoure;
     Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,
     For Heresy is in her pow’r,
     And gloriously she’ll whang her
     Wi’ pith this day.

     Come, let a proper text be read,
     An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour,
     How graceless Ham^5 leugh at his dad,
     Which made Canaan a nigger;
     Or Phineas^6 drove the murdering blade,
     Wi’ whore-abhorring rigour;
     Or Zipporah,^7 the scauldin jad,
     Was like a bluidy tiger
     I’ th’ inn that day.