Then Rockingham took up the game, Till death did on him ca', man; When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, Conform to gospel law, man: Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, They did his measures thraw, man; For North an' Fox united stocks, An' bore him to the wa', man.
Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes, He swept the stakes awa', man, Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, Led him a sair faux pas, man: The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, On Chatham's boy did ca', man; An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew, “Up, Willie, waur them a', man!”
Behind the throne then Granville's gone, A secret word or twa, man; While slee Dundas arous'd the class Be-north the Roman wa', man: An' Chatham's wraith, in heav'nly graith, (Inspired bardies saw, man), Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, “Willie, rise! Would I hae fear'd them a', man?”
But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co. Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man; Till Suthron raise, an' coost their claise Behind him in a raw, man: An' Caledon threw by the drone, An' did her whittle draw, man; An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' bluid, To mak it guid in law, man.
Reply To An Announcement By J. Rankine On His Writing To The Poet, That A Girl In That Part Of The Country Was With A Child To Him.
I am a keeper of the law In some sma' points, altho' not a'; Some people tell me gin I fa', Ae way or ither, The breaking of ae point, tho' sma', Breaks a' thegither.
I hae been in for't ance or twice, And winna say o'er far for thrice; Yet never met wi' that surprise That broke my rest; But now a rumour's like to rise-- A whaup's i' the nest!
O Rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin! There's mony godly folks are thinkin, Your dreams and tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin Straught to auld Nick's.
Ye hae saw mony cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, drucken rants, Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen thro'.
Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it! Spare't for their sakes, wha aften wear it-- The lads in black; But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives't aff their back.
Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye're skaithing: It's just the Blue-gown badge an' claithing O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething To ken them by Frae ony unregenerate heathen, Like you or I.