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 ne’er met so hot,
  Or were more in fury seen, Sir,
Than ‘twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job-
  Who should be Faculty’s Dean, Sir.

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore,
  Among the first was number’d;
But pious Bob, ‘mid learning’s store,
  Commandment the tenth remember’d.
Yet simple Bob the victory got,
  And won his heart’s 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 merit’s rudeness,
Chose one who should owe it all, d’ye see,
  To their gratis grace and goodness.

As once on Pisgah purg’d was the sight
  Of a son of Circumcision,
So may be, on this Pisgah height,
  Bob’s purblind mental vision;
Nay, Bobby’s mouth may be open’d 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 they’re to your liking.

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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