Wee wifukie, or, This is no me/The pope's knavery, or Old Nick's invention

Wee wifukie, or, This is no me
The pope's knavery, or Old Nick's invention


Of all the arts the De'il did shew,
His Master-piece I Pop'ry view;
For being himself with Heaven at odds,
He taught them first to eat their gods.
Which wicked false and cunning trick,
Was first invented by Old Nick.

They say the Pope can pardon sin,
If that be true we've need of him;
For there's no fear but we'll get work,
For him and all his hellish folk,
As long's his Master Devil can,
Unthinking mortals thus trapan. Fal. &c.

Yes work enough t' at' very sure:
But what becomes of all that's poor,
To Purgatory trip must they;
Unless with bribes the Priest you pay;
And there ly a thousand years,
The lesft he'll tak's a peck o' bear. Fal. &c.

The Porter too must have his groat;
Or then he'll take you by the throat.
And a wax candle there must be
Through Purgatory there fo to see,
First to be sure to get them money:
They'd work for that if they'd work for any, &c

They'll take you to a better place,
Without repentance, faith or grace:
And well I wot that is strange news,
For there the Turks and there the Jews,
As bad as ever they were ca'd,
They ne'er set up this hellish trade, Fal. &c.

I don't remember that the De'il,
To pardon sin pretended skill,
But Turks and Jews with a' their cha',
The Popish Clergy bangs them a',
The Saints and Angels they address,
For dead and living they say Mass, Fal &c.

All kinds of sin commit do they,
And none dare challenge, or gainsay;
They'll rob a Virgin of her prize,
And pardon her before she rise,
It's shocking to the human ear
The tricks of Popish Priefts to hear. Fal, &c.

Where is the zeal your fathers bore,
Against the Pope and Romish Whore,
Think on Argyle and Jeaviswood,
Who fear'd not faggot, nor the sword,
But to oppose the Romish Faity,
Lay down their lives and welcome death. Fal &c,

Ye Lowland Lads that drive the cart,
I know you have good hands and heart,
Charge your musket, point your lance,
Us to Mars' field do ye advance,
And join brave Donald without breeks,
Who make the French to wet their cheeks. &c.

Why should the Peasant's heart be cold,
When Princes' hearts are firm and bold,
They are the head you are the hand,
That should defend our British land,
Go forth with Howe and Elliot true,
The French and Spaniards to subdue. Fal, &cl