Epistle to John Goldie in Kilmarnock, Author of, The Gospel recovered——August—-1785

O GOWDIE, terror o' the whigs,
Dread o' black coats and reverend wigs!
Sour Bigotry on her last legs,
Girns and looks back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues
May seize you quick.------

Poor gapin, glowrin Superstition!
Wae's me, she's in a sad condition:
Fye: bring Black Jock her state physician,
To see her water:
Alas! there's ground for great suspicion,
She'll ne'er get better.------

Enthusiasm's past redemption,
Gane in a gallopin consumption:
Not a' her quacks wi' a' their gumption
Can ever mend her;
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
She'll soon surrender.------

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
For every hole to get a stapple;
But now she fetches at the thrapple,
And fights for breath;
Haste, gie her name up in the Chapel
Near unto death.----

It's you and Taylor are the chief
To blame for a' this black mischief;
But, could the Lord's ain folk get leave,
A toom tar barrel
And twa red peats wad bring relief,
And end the quarrel.------

For me, my skill's but very sma',
And skill in Prose I've nane ava;
But quietlenswise, between us twa,
Weel may you speed;
And tho' they sud your sair misca',
Ne'er fash your head.------

E'en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!
The mair they squeel ay chap the thicker;
And still 'mang hands a hearty bicker
O' something stout;
It gars an Owther's pulse beat quicker,
And helps his wit.----

There's naething like the honest nappy;
Whare'll ye e'er see men sae happy,
Or women sonsie, saft an' sappy,
'Tween morn and morn,
As them wha like to taste the drappie
In glass or horn.----

I've seen me daz’t upon a time,
I scarce could wink or see a styme;
Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,
(Ought less is little)
Then back I rattle on the rhyme,
As gleg 's a whittle.----
I am &c.