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Poem by Robert Burns

The Dean Of Faculty

DIRE was the hate at old Harlaw
  That Scot to Scot did carry;
And dire the discord Langside saw
  For beauteous hapless Mary:
But Scot with Scot neer met so hot,
  Or were more in fury seen, Sir,
Than twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job-
  Who should be Facultys Dean, Sir.

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore,
  Among the first was numberd;
But pious Bob, mid learnings store,
  Commandment the tenth rememberd.
Yet simple Bob the victory got,
  And won his hearts desire;
Which shews that heaven can boil the pot,
  Tho the devil piss in the fire.

Squire Hal besides had, in this case,
  Pretensions rather brassy,
For talents to deserve a place
  Are qualifications saucy;
So their worships of the Faculty,
  Quite sick of merits rudeness,
Chose one who should owe it all, dye see,
  To their gratis grace and goodness.

As once on Pisgah purgd was the sight
  Of a son of Circumcision,
So may be, on this Pisgah height,
  Bobs purblind mental vision;
Nay, Bobbys mouth may be opend yet,
  Till for eloquence you hail him,
And swear he has the Angel met
  That met the Ass of Balaam.

In your heretic sins may ye live and die,
  Ye heretic eight and thirty!
But accept, ye sublime Majority,
  My congratulations hearty.
With your Honours and a certain King,
  In your servants this is striking-
The more incapacity they bring,
  The more theyre to your liking.

Robert Burns

Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. The Cairds Second Song
  2. The Sailors Song
  3. Had I The Wyte
  4. The Rantin Dog the Daddie Ot
  5. The Toast

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