“If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave, By Nature’s law design’d, Why was an independent wish E’er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty, or scorn? Or why has man the will and pow’r To make his fellow mourn? “Yet, let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast: This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the last! The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn! “O Death! the poor man’s dearest friend, The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy fear thy blow From pomp and pleasure torn; But, oh! a blest relief for those That weary-laden mourn!” The Twa Herds; Or, The Holy Tulyie An Unco Mournfu’ Tale “Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor, But fool with fool is barbarous civil war,”—Pope. O a’ ye pious godly flocks, Weel fed on pastures orthodox, Wha now will keep you frae the fox, Or worrying tykes? Or wha will tent the waifs an’ crocks, About the dykes? The twa best herds in a’ the wast, The e’er ga’e gospel horn a blast These five an’ twenty simmers past— Oh, dool to tell! Hae had a bitter black out-cast Atween themsel’. O, Moddie,^1 man, an’ wordy Russell,^2 How could you raise so vile a bustle; Ye’ll see how New-Light herds will whistle, An’ think it fine! The Lord’s cause ne’er gat sic a twistle, Sin’ I hae min’. O, sirs! whae’er wad hae expeckit Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, Ye wha were ne’er by lairds respeckit To wear the plaid; But by the brutes themselves eleckit, To be their guide. What flock wi’ Moodie’s flock could rank?— Sae hale and hearty every shank! Nae poison’d soor Arminian stank He let them taste; Frae Calvin’s well, aye clear, drank,— O, sic a feast! [Footnote 1: Rev. Mr. Moodie of Riccarton.] [Footnote 2: Rev. John Russell of Kilmarnock.] The thummart, willcat, brock, an’ tod, Weel kend his voice thro’ a’ the wood, He smell’d their ilka hole an’ road, Baith out an in; An’ weel he lik’d to shed their bluid, An’ sell their skin. What herd like Russell tell’d his tale; His voice was heard thro’ muir and dale, He kenn’d the Lord’s sheep, ilka tail, Owre a’ the height; An’ saw gin they were sick or hale, At the first sight. He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, Or nobly fling the gospel club, And New-Light herds could nicely drub Or pay their skin; Could shake them o’er the burning dub, Or heave them in.