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Puir, profligate Londoners, having heard tell
That the De’il’s got amang ye, and fearing ’tis true,
We ha’ sent ye a mon wha’s a match for his spell,
A chiel o’ our ain, that the De’il himsel
Will be glad to keep clear of, ane Andrew Agnew.

So at least ye may reckon for one day entire
In ilka lang week ye’ll be tranquil eneugh,
As Auld Nick, do him justice, abhors a Scotch squire,
An’ would sooner gae roast by his ain kitchen fire
Than pass a hale Sunday wi’ Andrew Agnew.

For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way,
He’d na let a cat on the Sabbath say “mew;”
Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play,
An Phoebus himsel could na travel that day.
As he’d find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew.

Only hear, in your Senate, how awfu’ he cries,
“Wae, wae to a’ sinners who boil an’ who stew!
“Wae, wae to a’ eaters o’ Sabbath baked pies,
“For as surely again shall the crust thereof rise
“In judgment against ye,” saith Andrew Agnew!

Ye may think, from a’ this, that our Andie’s the lad
To ca’ o’er the coals your nobeelity too;
That their drives, o’ a Sunday, wi’ flunkies,[1] a’ clad
Like Shawmen, behind ’em, would mak the mon mad–
But he’s nae sic a noodle, our Andie Agnew.

If Lairds an’ fine Ladies, on Sunday, think right
To gang to the deevil–as maist o’ ’em do–
To stop them our Andie would think na polite;
And ’tis odds (if the chiel could get onything by’t)
But he’d follow ’em, booing, would Andrew Agnew.

NOTE:
[1] Servants in livery.