XIV.
Muirland George, Muirland George,
Whom the Lord made a scourge,
To claw common sense for her sins;
If ill manners were wit,
There’s no mortal so fit,
To confound the poor doctor at ance,
Muirland George,
To confound the poor doctor at ance.
XV.
Cessnockside, Cessnockside,
Wi’ your turkey-cock pride,
O’ manhood but sma’ is your share;
Ye’ve the figure, it’s true,
Even our faes maun allow,
And your friends daurna say ye hae mair,
Cessnockside,
And your friends daurna say ye hae mair.
XVI.
Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld,
There’s a tod i’ the fauld
A tod meikle waur than the clerk;[93]
Tho’ ye downa do skaith,
Ye’ll be in at the death,
And if ye canna bite ye can bark,
Daddie Auld,
And if ye canna bite ye can bark.
XVII.
Poet Burns, Poet Burns,
Wi’ your priest-skelping turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Tho’ your Muse is a gipsy,
Yet were she even tipsy,
She could ca’ us nae waur than we are,
Poet Burns,
She could ca’ us nae waur than we are.
POSTSCRIPT.