Quick saddle your mare, to Auld Reikie repair,
For my muse is confoundedly dull;
But your pious face will inspire me with grace,
And enliven my insipid skull,
My brave boy, &c.
Besides dear M-----d, your cause will be dead,
Old Greenlaw too, drown'd in despair;
Nor longer can Claud your conduct applaud;
So haste away, mount on your mare,
My brave boy, &c.
The oister in season will bring you to reason,
With other fine cates of our town;
Strong beer too and wine, will inspire the divine,
And dispel from your noddle the frown,
My brave boy, &c.
A snap at a whore, your ailments may cure,
And substitute claps in their place;
For clergy are wont to dip in the font,
And preach up the doctrine of grace,
My brave boy, &c.