The Pop’ an’ Jock Cumming, oh dear, oh dear! They winna foregather, I fear, I fear; For Jock certain questions has got to speer That the Pop’ wad na fancy to hear, hear, hear. The Pop’ till his Council did all invite, Wha coudna see Truth, to receive their sight, “For me” answered Jockie, “noo that’s a’ right; Just what I wad hae is your light, light, light. “Ye’ve sic an’ sic points I could ne’er mak’ oot, An’ want my puir vision illumed aboot; Mair light is the cure my complaint wad suit; Sae lighten my darkness an’ doot, doot, doot. “Do show me your light, abune Lime, or Bude, Magnesian, Electric――do be sae gude! Sin’ I’ve been invited, I dinna intrude; When I cry for light ca’ me not rude, rude, rude.” The Pop’ to Jock Cumming mak’s no reply; _Non possumus_, noo, he may truly cry. ’Tis not as it was in the days gane by, When a Pop’ could his questioner fry, fry, fry. The Pop’ and his Cardinals sing fu’ sma’, An’ they grin, an’ they glow’r in their Conclave Ha’, An’ their auld shaven chaps wi’ dismay do fa,’ Jock Cumming’s dumfounded ’em a’, a’, a’! _Punch._ ―――― HEY, JOHNNY CUMMING! (Air――“_Hey, Johnny Cope!_”) Hey, Johnny Cumming! are ye waukin’ yet! Or aboot the Millennium talkin’ yet? Gin ye were waukin’ priests wad wait, To shrive _Johnny Cumming_ i’ the mornin’. Johnnie wrote a challenge to the _Pop’ o’ Rome_, Sayin’, “Sin’ till the council ye’ve bid me come, Gin I gang, can I speak as nae doggie dumb? I wad speer ye for light i’ the mornin’.” When _Pawpie_ read the letter on, He took him pen and ink anon, We’ll mak’ short wark wi’ this heretic son O’ _Scotia_ an’ _Knox_ i’ the mornin’.” A line through _Manning_ the douce auld _Pop’_ To _Johnnie_ did in answer drop; “Thae questions ye’d speer we canna stop To re-open the noo of a mornin’. “There’s nane can doot or deny that we Are the Lord-Lieutenant o’ Christendie. D’ye spy ony green in our Paternal ee? Get hoot wi’ your chaff of a mornin’! “Ye’re welcome at our council Ha’, Doon on your marrowbones to fa’ An’ your errors recant, and haud your jaw, Nae mair o’ your gab i’ the mornin’! Ye’ll come to mak’ submission mute, We dinna argue or dispute, Shall naething say but, ‘There’s Our fute, Kiss that, _Johnny Cumming_, i’ the mornin’! When _Johnnie_ gat the _Pop’s_ reply, Said he, “I baith doot an’ deny An’ sae do mony mair forbye, The commission ye claim of a mornin’.” Twice ten Munich Doctors of canon law Acknowledge there’s nae rule at a’ To tell what the _Pop_’ says _ex cathedra_’ An’ what aff of his throne i’ the mornin’.”