CIX.
THE KIRK'S ALARM;[76]
A SATIRE.
[FIRST VERSION.]
[The history of this Poem is curious. M'Gill, one of the ministers of Ayr, long suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions concerning original sin and the Trinity, published "A Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ," which, in the opinion of the more rigid portion of his brethren, inclined both to Arianism and Socinianism. This essay was denounced as heretical, by a minister of the name Peebles, in a sermon preached November 5th, 1788, and all the west country was in a flame. The subject was brought before the Synod, and was warmly debated till M'Gill expressed his regret for the disquiet he had occasioned, explained away or apologized for the challenged passages in his Essay, and declared his adherence to the Standard doctrines of his mother church. Burns was prevailed upon to bring his satire to the aid of M'Gill, but he appears to have done so with reluctance.]
Orthodox, orthodox, Wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience: There's a heretic blast Has been blawn in the wast, That what is no sense must be nonsense.
Dr. Mac,[77] Dr. Mac, You should stretch on a rack, To strike evil doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense Upon ony pretence, Is heretic, damnable error.
Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, It was mad, I declare, To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; Provost John[78] is still deaf To the church's relief, And orator Bob[79] is its ruin.
D'rymple mild,[80] D'rymple mild, Thro' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, Auld Satan must hav ye, For preaching that three's ane an' twa.
Rumble John,[81] Rumble John, Mount the steps wi' a groan, Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd; Then lug out your ladle, Deal brimstone like adle, And roar every note of the danm'd.
Simper James,[82] Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chase in your view; I'll lay on your head That the pack ye'll soon lead. For puppies like you there's but few.
Singet Sawney,[83] Singet Sawney, Are ye herding the penny, Unconscious what evil await? Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, Alarm every soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate.
Daddy Auld,[84] Daddy Auld, There's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk; Though yo can do little skaith, Ye'll be in at the death, And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.
Davie Bluster,[85] Davie Bluster, If for a saint ye do muster, The corps is no nice of recruits; Yet to worth let's be just, Royal blood ye might boast, If the ass was the king of the brutes.
Jamy Goose,[86] Jamy Goose, Ye ha'e made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked lieutenant; But the Doctor's your mark, For the L--d's haly ark; He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't.
Poet Willie,[87] Poet Willie, Fie the Doctor a volley, Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit; O'er Pegasus' side Ye ne'er laid astride, Ye but smelt, man, the place where he ----.
Andro Gouk,[88], Andro Gouk, Ye may slander the book, And the book not the waur, let me tell ye; Ye are rich and look big, But lay by hat and wig, And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value.
Barr Steenie,[89] Barr Steenie, What mean ye, what mean ye? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Ye may ha'e some pretence To havins and sense, Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.
Irvine side,[90] Irvine side, Wi' your turkey-cock pride, Of manhood but sum' is your share, Ye've the figure 'tis true, Even your faes will allow, And your friends they dae grunt you nae mair.
Muirland Jock,[91] Muirland Jock, When the L--d makes a rock To crush Common sense for her sins, If ill manners were wit, There's no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance.
Holy Will,[92] Holy Will, There was wit i' your skull, When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; The timmer is scant, When ye're ta'en for a saunt, Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.
Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, Seize your spir'tual guns, Ammunition you never can need; Your hearts are the stuff, Will be powther enough, And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.
Poet Burns, Poet Burns, Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Your muse is a gipsie, E'en tho' she were tipsie, She could ca' us nae waur than we are.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 76: This Poem was written a short time after the publication of M'Gill's Essay.]
[Footnote 77: Dr. M'Gill.]
[Footnote 78: John Ballantyne.]
[Footnote 79: Robert Aiken.]
[Footnote 80: Dr. Dalrymple.]
[Footnote 81: Mr. Russell.]
[Footnote 82: Mr. M'Kinlay.]
[Footnote 83: Mr. Moody, of Riccarton.]
[Footnote 84: Mr. Auld of Mauchline.]
[Footnote 85: Mr. Grant, of Ochiltree.]
[Footnote 86: Mr. Young, of Cumnock.]
[Footnote 87: Mr. Peebles, Ayr.]
[Footnote 88: Dr. Andrew Mitchell, of Monkton.]
[Footnote 89: Mr. Stephen Young, of Barr.]
[Footnote 90: Mr. George Smith, of Galston.]
[Footnote 91: Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk.]
[Footnote 92: Holy Willie, alias William Fisher, Elder in Mauchline.]
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