[Footnote 9: William Peebles, in Newton-upon-Ayr, a poetaster, who, among many other things, published an ode on the “Centenary of the Revolution,” in which was the line: “And bound in Liberty’s endering chain.”—R.B.] [Footnote 10: Stephen Young of Barr.—R.B.] [Footnote 11: James Young, in New Cumnock, who had lately been foiled in an ecclesiastical prosecution against a Lieutenant Mitchel—R.B.] 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