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. There, try his mettle on the creed, An’ bind him down wi’ caution, That stipend is a carnal weed He taks by for the fashion; And gie him o’er the flock, to feed, And punish each transgression; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin; Spare them nae day. Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, An’ toss thy horns fu’ canty; Nae mair thou’lt rowt out-owre the dale, Because thy pasture’s scanty; For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, An’ runts o’ grace the pick an’ wale, No gi’en by way o’ dainty, But ilka day. [Footnote 5: Genesis ix. 22.—R. B.] [Footnote : Numbers xxv. 8.—R. B.] [Footnote 7: Exodus iv. 52.—R. B] Nae mair by Babel’s streams we’ll weep, To think upon our Zion; And hing our fiddles up to sleep, Like baby-clouts a-dryin! Come, screw the pegs wi’ tunefu’ cheep, And o’er the thairms be tryin; Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep, And a’ like lamb-tails flyin Fu’ fast this day. Lang, Patronage, with rod o’ airn, Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoin; As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, Has proven to its ruin:^8 Our patron, honest man! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewin; An’ like a godly, elect bairn, He’s waled us out a true ane, And sound, this day. Now Robertson^9 harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever; Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they’ll think you clever; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a shaver; Or to the Netherton^10 repair, An’ turn a carpet weaver Aff-hand this day. Mu’trie^11 and you were just a match, We never had sic twa drones; Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, Just like a winkin baudrons, And aye he catch’d the tither wretch, To fry them in his caudrons; But now his Honour maun detach, Wi’ a’ his brimstone squadrons, Fast, fast this day. [Footnote 8: Rev. Wm. Boyd, pastor of Fenwick.] [Footnote 9: Rev. John Robertson.] [Footnote 10: A district of Kilmarnock.] [Footnote 11: The Rev. John Multrie, a “Moderate,” whom Mackinlay succeeded.]