Blockheads with reason wicked Wits abhor,
But Fool with Fool is barbarous civil war.

O A' ye pious godly Flocks,
Weel fed in pastures orthodox,
Wha now will keep you frae the fox
Or worryin tykes?
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks
About the dykes?

The twa best Herds in a' the west,
That e'er gae gospel horns a blast
These five and fifty simmers past ,
O dool to tell!
Hae had a bitter, black outcast
Atween themsel.

O Moodie man, an' wordy Russel,
How could you breed sae vile a bustle?
Ye'll see how New-light Herds will whistle,
And think it fine!
The Lord's cause gat na sic a twissle
Since I hae min'.

O Sirs! Wha ever wad hae expeckit
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit?
You wha was ne’er by Lairds respeckit,
To wear the Plaid;
But by the vera Brutes eleckit
To be their Guide!

What Flock wi' Moodie's Flock could rank,
Sae hale and hearty every shank?
Nae poison'd Arminian stank
He loot them taste;
But Calvin's fountain-head they drank,
Tah was a feast!

The Fulmart, Wil-cat, Brock and Tod
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood;
He knew their ilka hole and road,
Baith out and in:
And liked weel to shed their blood,
And sell their skin.

And wha like Russel tell'd his tale;
His voice was heard o'er moor and dale:
He kend the Lord's sheep ilka tail,
O'er a' the height;
And tell'd gin they were sick or hale
At the first sight.

He fine a mangie sheep could scrub,
And nobly swing the Gospel-club;
Or New-Light Herds could nicely drub
And pay their skin;
Or hing them o'er the burning dub,
Or shute them in.

Sic twa - O, do I live to see 't,
Sic famous twa sud disagree 't!
And names like, “Villain, Hypocrite,”
Each other giein;
While enemies wi' laughin spite
Say, “Neither 's liein.”

O ye wha tent the Gospel fauld,
Thee, Duncan deep, and Peebles shaul,
And chiefly great Apostle Auld,
We trust in thee,
That thou wilt work them het and cauld
To gar them gree.

Consider, Sirs, how we 're beset;
There 's scarce a new Herd that we get
But comes frae 'mang that cursed Set
I winna name:
I trust in Heaven, to see them het
Yet in a flame.

There ‘s D’rymple has been lang our fae;
Mcgill has wrought us meikle wae;
And that curst rascal ca'd Mcquhey;
And baith the Shaws,
Wha aft hae made us black and blae
Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Wodrow lang has wrought mischief,
We trusted death wad bring relief;
But he has gotten, to our grief,
Ane to succeed him;
A chap will soundly buff our beef
I meikle dread him.

And mony mae that I could tell
Wha fair and openly rebel;
Forby Turn-coats amang oursel,
There 's Smith for ane;
I doubt he 's but a Gray-neck still
And that ye'll fin'.

O a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills,
By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
Come join your counsels and your skills
To cowe the Lairds,
And get the Brutes the power themsels
To chuse their Herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
An Learning in a woody dance;
And that curst cur ca'd Common Sense
Wha bites sae sair,
Be banish'd o'er the seas to France,
Let him bark there.

[Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence,
M'Gill's close nervous excellence,
M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense,
And guid M'Math,
Wi Smith wha thro' the heart can glance,
May a' pack aff.]