The Calf

Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true,Tho' Heretics may laugh;For instance; there's yoursel just now,God knows, an unco Calf!

And should some Patron be so kind,As bless you wi' a kirk,I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find,Ye're still as great a Stirk.

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hourShall ever be your lot,Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power,You e'er should be a Stot!

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear,Your but-and-ben adorns,The like has been that you may wearA noble head of horns.

And, in your lug, most reverend James,To hear you roar and rowte,Few men o' sense will doubt your claimsTo rank amang the Nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead,Below a grassy hillock,Wi' justice they may mark your head—'Here lies a famous Bullock!'