There are some wha think they hae much in their noddle,
Leave their ain ingle cheek unasked counsel to gie,
For cozie hame comforts they care na a bodle,

Sac avoid a' sic folks till the day that ye dee.

Robby, the Hypocrite of Dunse.

HE kirk is the hobby o' God-fearin' Robby,

Let orthodox Presbyters beat him wha can; He rides on the tap o't, and thrives in the lap o't, And hugs the fat nurse o' the best friend o' man.

She fand him a callant, red-heided wi' talent,

(Oh wha ever heard o' a red-heided saunt?) A lamb she has led him, in rich pastures fed him, His wame has ne'er felt since the gripings o' want.

In hame-spun hodden-gray he first essayed to pray,

The folks glowered aboot wi' queer looks o' surprise, While the wild-looking loun fra a sma' kintra toun

Pointed oot the straught gate to their hame in the skies.

The niest time he was seen where but aince he had been,
The lads and the lasses scarce kent him ava;

Wi' new claes on his back like a moudiwort black,
He was shining and sleek as the best o' them a'.

Robby on the richt road, ever sly as a tod,

Gat grit wi' the dominie, elders and a';
Wi' face red and sensie he lookit sae donsie,
And gleyly the creature wad rin at their ca'.

Tho' a time-serving tool he was nac glaikit fool,

He'd seen that Success had aft meanly to boo; Weel received at the manse wi' a steady advance, Robby sune gat the minister's dochter to woo.

He was buckled wi' pride to young Bessie, his bride,
A lassie well-faured and just oot o' her teens;
Blest wi' Heaven's best gift to poor man 'neath the lift,
He sune fand eneugh o' new sanctified friens.

As prospects were brightened, his purse-strings were tightened,
And cauld his heart grew to the famishing poor,
For sud honest leal folk but carry the meal pock,
They needna for aumos e'er ca' at his door.

The douce kind o' birkie stack close by the kirk aye,
He boo'd and he scrapit to young and to auld;

A kind o' a colly amang the flock holy,

He evidently watched a' the sheep in the fauld.

Wi' a smooth-shaven face the chield waxed strong in grace,
Feint a sprout o' a hair could be seen on his chin,
Wi' but gear in his view, Robby temperate grew;
And Abstinence bleached the red oot o' his skin.

Sic strict self-denial is nae common trial,

To ane wi' strong passions curst wi' a red heid; He grew rich and siccar, yet stack to his bicker,

O, parritch, the same as in auld times o' need.

Ilk Sunday sleek Robby stood in the kirk-lobby,

Wi' a sinister smile that aye lurk'd boot his mou; When the folks were a' in the stanch hater o' Sin, On his tip-tae, wad saftly snoove aff to his pew.

When the reverend Mac wad come doun wi' a whack
On the Bible that lay on the poopit afore him,
All deaf to Mac's roaring, meek Robby sat snoring,
No caring a bodle what fate micht hang o'er him.

When he woke frae some dream, unco wise he wad seem,
And doun his pale cheeks pious tears wad aft flow;
He liked sermons long, and that smelt very strong
O' the brimstone that's found in the region below.

The bawbees he gathered, and thumping bairns fathered,
And under the smiles o' a rich thriving church
He was firm as a rock-and wi' fleecing the flock
Maist ilka thing turned into gowd at his touch.

Fastened, body and soul, under Mammon's control,
He piled up his ingots disguised as a saunt;
At the meetings for prayer he was sure to be there,

And his tongue was the loudest in hypocrite cant.

A lic-hatcher frae youth, and a stranger to truth, He cheated the simple, and laughed at the wise; No one was mair civil that e'er served the devil, Wrapped up in a black cloak o' holy disguise.

If you want to succeed, O ye poor sons o' need,
Let conscience be seared and the heart ever cold;
Care for nothing but self; let your idol be pelf,
And the object of life be the hoarding of gold.
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