Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
55 . The Twa Herds; or, The Holy Tulyie
O
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 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’. How could you raise so vile a bustle; Ye’ll see how New-Light herds will whistle, An’ think it fine! The L—’s cause ne’er gat sic a twistle, Sin’ I hae min’. 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. 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! 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. His voice was heard thro’ muir and dale, He kenn’d the L—’s sheep, ilka tail, Owre a’ the height; An’ saw gin they were sick or hale, At the first sight. 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. Sic famous twa should disagree’t, And names, like “villain,” “hypocrite,” Ilk ither gi’en, While New-Light herds, wi’ laughin spite, Say neither’s liein! There’s Duncan deep, an’ Peebles shaul, But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, het an’ cauld, Till they agree. There’s scarce a new herd that we get, But comes frae ’mang that cursed set, I winna name; I hope frae heav’n to see them yet In fiery flame. M’Gill has wrought us meikle wae, An’ that curs’d rascal ca’d M’Quhae, And baith the Shaws, That aft hae made us black an’ blae, Wi’ vengefu’ paws. We thought aye death wad bring relief; But he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him, A chield wha’ soundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him. Wha fain wad openly rebel, Forby turn-coats amang oursel’, There’s Smith for ane; I doubt he’s but a grey nick quill, An’ that ye’ll fin’. By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, Come, join your counsel and your skills To cowe the lairds, An’ get the brutes the power themsel’s To choose their herds. An’ Learning in a woody dance, An’ that fell cur ca’d Common Sense, That bites sae sair, Be banished o’er the sea to France: Let him bark there. M’Gill’s close nervous excellence An’ guid M’Math, Wi’ Smith, wha thro’ the heart can glance, May a’ pack aff.