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Burns, Robert, 1759-1796

"Poems and Songs of Robert Burns"

--R.B.]
[Footnote 11: James Young, in New Cumnock, who had lately been
foiled in an ecclesiastical prosecution against a Lieutenant
Mitchel--R.B.]
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast,
If the Ass were the king o' the brutes,
Davie Bluster!^12 If the Ass were the king o' the brutes.
Irvine Side! Irvine Side, wi' your turkey-cock pride
Of manhood but sma' is your share:
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, ev'n your foes will allow,
And your friends they dare grant you nae mair,
Irvine Side!^13 And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.
Muirland Jock! muirland Jock, when the Lord makes a rock,
To crush common-sense for her sins;
If ill-manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit
To confound the poor Doctor at ance,
Muirland Jock!^14 To confound the poor Doctor at ance.
Andro Gowk! Andro Gowk, ye may slander the Book,
An' the Book nought the waur, let me tell ye;
Tho' ye're rich, an' look big, yet, lay by hat an' wig,
An' ye'll hae a calf's--had o' sma' value,
Andro Gowk!^15 Ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma value.


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