Poem by David Sillar

Verses, Occasioned by a Reply to Burns’ Calf by an Unco Calf

		A preachin’ Ca’f – a Poet wearin’ cloots –
		Are surely ferlies ‘mang the nat’ral brutes.

1.

Were Father Adam now tae rise,
	An’ view us face to face,
I’m sure he’d scarce believe his eyes,
	That he begat our race.

2.

Tho’ in his days mischief there was, 
	Men still were human creatures;
An’ for his children they did pass, 
	Tho’ changed i’ their natures.

3.

Balaam, ’twas strange, an ass he heard
	Fortellin’ him o’ danger; 
But surely cloots upon a Bard,
	An’ preachin’ calves, are stranger.

4.

For Gude’s sake, Sirs, your flytin’ cease,
	Misca’na ane anither; 
Lest calves an’ stirks, by keepin’ peace,
	Disgrace you a’ thegither.

5.

But if ye winna cease tae rair, 
	Tae rout, tae girn, an’ gape,
Ye’re hafflins beasts; in naething mair .
	Ye differ but the shape.

6.

Gae satire vice; let men alane, 
	Tho’ diff’rent in opinion;
Wha’s right we canna always ken; 
	Man’s mind is his dominion.

7.

I’m sorry sirs, I hae’t tae say, 
	Our passions are sae strong,
As mak us tine the beaten way, 
	An rin sae aften wrong,

8.

But firs, mair sorry I am still, 
	When without provocation,
A brother’s character we’d kill, 
	Or bring him tae vexation.

9.

Then for the future let’s be mute, 
	Reverin’ those above us;
Wi’ such as we, let’s not dispute, 
	An’ syne our frien’s will love us.

10.

Sae rout or no, just tak your will, 
	I tell you tae your face,
The actions which befit a bull 
	Affront the human race.

1. Epistle to the Critics
2. Epistle to J**N G****E, a Famous Theologist and Astronomer
3. Song IV
4. Money Makes the Mare to Go
5. Epistle to R. Burns

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