Robert Burns

The Holy Tulzie

written in 1784

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 The 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, and wordy Russell, How could you raise so vile a bustle? Ye'll see how New-light Herds will whistle, And think it fine! The L�d's cause ne'er gat sic a twissle, since I hae min'. O, Sirs! Wha ever wad expeckit Your duty ye wad sae negleckit? Ye 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 Ariminian stank He loot them taste; But Calvin's fountain-head they drank, That 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 Russell tell'd his tale; His voice was heard o'er moor and dale: He kend the L�d'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 maingie sheep could scrub, Or nobly swing the Gospel-club; And 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 with 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, That 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 Grey-nick still, An' that ye'll fin'. O a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, Come, join your counsel and your skills To cowe the Lairds, An' get the Brutes the power themsels To chuse their Herds. Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, And Learning in a woody dance; And that curst cur ca'd Common Sense, Wha bites sae sair, Be banished o'er the sea to France, Let him bark there. Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, M'�ll's close nervous excellence, M'Q�e's pathetic manly sense, An' guid M'�h, Wi' S�th, wha thro' the heart can glance, May a' pack aff .

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