Page:Answer to Andrew Moffat's small poem, on singing church-music.pdf/2

 So I fell to and turn’d them o’er, As they lay a’ like lumber, And dadit ass the dust and stour Frae ilka page arid number. Of ilka piece I took a peep, I view’d their title pages, Just as a herd looks o’er his sheep, To know their health and ages.

Here’s Hervey—Milton’s Paradise, The Monk and Hub the Miller, Young’s Love of Fame comes in a trice, And Jack-the-Giant-killer. Here Anson round the world sails, There’s Douglas and Macbeath, Here’s Mother Bunch’s Fairy Tales, There’s Doctor Dod on Death,

Here’s——what is this! ’tis something new! But wha I wonder’s aught it! It has come here—but when or how; I’m sure I never bought it. Yet mine or no, it’s a’ the same As far as I have seen; The piece is verse, the author’s name Is Andrew in the Dean.

With that I drew in o’er a stool, Sat down afore the ingle, Laid aff my hat, drew on my cowl, And rattled o’er the jingle. Now, Andrew, I’ve read through and through The whole of your epistle, And thinks, wha cannot sing wi’ you Should be content to whistle.