Classic Poem

Is there no left ae scathin' muse
In SCOTLAND yet, to raise the cruse ,
And keen, hert-scaudin' verse to use
For Peace and Truth?
Against thae curtyke, Kirk-folk crews —
Nor spare in ruth.

We need a deevil-drivin ' sprite
Like auld DUNBAR, wha weel could flite,
And scart an' tear wi unco bite,
The black-gown kind;
He frae the Frees micht cut the spite,
And nae yin mind.

Or him — that ither scaudin' fount,
The LYON, LINDSAY o' the Mount —
He micht their vices weel recount,
An' nip their lug;
Their shameless trattle he could flount,
Their pride to shug.