i meikle dread him.
and mony a ahat i could tell,
wha fain enly 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'.
o! a' ye flocks o'er a, the hills,
by mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
e, join your sel and your skills
to cowe the irds,
an' get the brutes the power themsel's
to choose their herds.
then orthodoxy yet may prance,
an' learning in a woody dance,
an' that fell cur ca'd on sense,
that bites sae sai
The Twa Herds; Or, The Holy Tulyie(6/7)