Poem by Robert Burns

The Twa Herds

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 and crocks,
    About the dykes?

The twa best herds in a’ the west
That e’er gae gospel horn a blast
These five-and-twenty summers past,
    O dool to tell!
Hae had a bitter black out-cast
    Atween themsel.

O Moodie, man, and wordy Russel,
How could you raise so vile a bustle?
Ye’ll see how new-light herds will whistle
    And 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 by lairds respeckit
    To wear the plaid,
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, they drank-
    O’ sic a feast!

The thummart, wil’-cat, brock and tod,
Weel kenn’d his voice thro’ a’ the wood;
He smell’d their ilka hole and road
    Baith out and in,
And weel he lik’d to shed their bluid
    And sell their skin.

What herd like Russel tell’d his tale?
His voice was heard thro’ muir and dale;
He kenn’d the Lord’s sheep, ilka tail,
    O’er a’ the height,
And 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 owre the burning dub,
    Or heave them in.

Sic twa-O! do I live to see ‘t?
Sic famous twa should disagreet,
An’ names like ‘villain,’ ‘hypocrite,’
    Ilk ither gi’en,
While new-light herds wi’ laughin’ spite
    Say neither’s leein’!

A’ ye wha tent the gospel fauld-
There’s Duncan deep, and Peebles shaul-
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld!
    We trust in thee,
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld,
    Till they agree.

Consider, sirs, how we’re beset!
There’s scarce a new herd that we get,
But comes free ‘mang that cursed set
    I winna name:
I hope frae heaven to see them yet
    In fiery flame.

Dalrymple has been lang our fae,
M’GilI has wrought us meikle wae,
And that curs’d rascal ca’d M’Quhae,
    And baith the Shaws,
That aft hae made us black and blae
    Wi’ vengefu’ paws.

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch’d mischief:
We thought aye death wad bring relief,
But he has gotten, to our grief,
    Ane to succeed him,
A chiel wha’ll soundly buff our beef,
    I meikle dread him.

And mony a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel;
Forby turn-coats amang oursel-
    There’s Smith for ane;
I doubt he’s but a grey nick quill,
    And that ye’ll fin’.

O a’ ye flocks, owre a’ the hills,
By mosses, meadows moors, and fells,
Come join your counsels and your skills
    To cowe the lairds,
And get the brutes the power themsels
    To choose their herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
And Learning in a woody dance,
And that fell cur ca’d Common Sense,
    That bites sae sair,
Be baniah’d owre the seas to France;
    Let him bark there.

Then Shaw’s and D’rymple’s eloquence,
M’Gill’s close nervous excellence,
M’Quhae’s pathetic manly sense,
    And guid M’Math,
Wi’ Smith, wha thro’ the heart can glance,
    May a’ pack aff!

1. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
2. Blythe Was She
3. Farewell to Ballochmyle
4. Stay My Charmer
5. On a Bank of Flowers

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