the twa herds; or, the holy tulyie

an unco mournfu' tale

“blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor,

but fool with fool is barbarous civil war,”—pope.

o a' ye pious godly flocks,

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 twa best herds in a' the wast,

the e'er ga'e gospel horn a st

these five an' twenty simmers past—

oh, dool to tell!

hae had a bitter ck out-cast

atween themsel'.

o, moddie, man, an' wordy russell,

how could you raise so vile a bustle;

ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle,

an' think it fine!

the lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle,

sin' i hae min'.

o, sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit

your duty ye wad sae negleckit,

ye wha were ne'er byirds respeckit

to wear the id;

but by the brutes themselves eleckit,

to be their guide.

what flock wi' moodie's flock could rank?—

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!

the thummart, willcat, brock, an' tod,

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.

what herd like russell tell'd his tale;

his voice was heard thro' muir and dale,

he kenn'd the lord's sheep, ilka tail,

owre a' the height;

an' saw gin they were sick or hale,

at the first sight.

he fine a mangy sheep could scrub,

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 twa—o! do i live to see't?—

sic famous twa should disagree't,