The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
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THE KIRK'S ALARM |
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| III. |
| IV. |
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 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
THE KIRK'S ALARM
I
Orthodox! orthodox!—Wha believe in John Knox—
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:
A heretic blast
Has been blawn i' the Wast,
That what is not sense must be nonsense—
Orthodox!
That what is not sense must be nonsense.
II
Dr. Mac! Dr. Mac!You should stretch on a rack,
To strike wicked Writers wi' terror:
To join faith and sense,
Upon onie pretence,
Was heretic, damnable error—
Dr. Mac!
'Twas heretic, damnable error.
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III
Town of Ayr! Town of Ayr!It was rash, I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing:
Provost John is still deaf
To the church's relief,
And Orator Bob is its ruin—
Town of Ayr!
And Orator Bob is its ruin.
IV
D'rymple mild! D'rymple mild!Tho' your heart's like a child,
An' your life like the new-driven snaw,
Yet that winna save ye:
Auld Satan must have ye,
For preaching that three's ane and twa—
D'rymple mild!
For preaching that three's ane and twa.
V
Calvin's sons! Calvin's sons!Seize your sp'ritual guns,
Ammunition you never can need:
Your hearts are the stuff
Will be powther enough,
And your skulls are store-houses o' lead—
Calvin's sons!
Your skulls are store-houses o' lead.
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VI
Rumble John! Rumble John!Mount the steps with a groan,
Cry:—‘The book is wi' heresy cramm'd’;
Then lug out your ladle,
Deal brimstone like adle,
And roar every note o' the damn'd—
Rumble John!
And roar every note o' the damn'd.
VII
Simper James! 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—
Simper James!
For puppies like you there's but few.
VIII
Singet Sawnie! Singet Sawnie!Are ye herding the penny,
Unconscious what evils await?
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl
Alarm every soul,
For the Foul Thief is just at your gate—
Singet Sawnie!
The Foul Thief is just at your gate.
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IX
Daddie Auld! Daddie Auld!There's a tod in the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than the clerk:
Tho' ye can do little skaith,
Ye'll be in at the death,
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark—
Daddie Auld!
For gif ye canna bite ye may bark.
X
Davie Rant! Davie Rant!In a face like a saunt
And a heart that would poison a hog,
Raise an impudent roar,
Like a breaker lee-shore,
Or the Kirk will be tint in a bog—
Davie Rant!
Or the Kirk will be tint in a bog.
XI
Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose!Ye hae made but toom roose
In hunting the wicked lieutenant;
But the Doctor's your mark,
For the Lord's haly ark,
He has cooper'd, and ca'd a wrang pin in't—
Jamie Goose!
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrang pin in't.
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XII
Poet Willie! Poet Willie!Gie the Doctor a volley,
Wi' your ‘Liberty's chain’ and your wit:
O'er Pegasus' side
Ye ne'er laid a stride,
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he shit—
Poet Willie!
Ye smelt but the place where he shit.
XIII
Andro' Gowk! Andro Gowk!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 hae a calf's head o' sma' value—
Andro Gowk!
Ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value.
XIV
Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie!What mean ye? what mean ye?
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence
To havins and sense
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better—
Barr Steenie!
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.
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XV
Irvine-side! Irvine-side!Wi' your turkey-cock pride,
Of manhood but sma' is your share:
Ye've the figure, 'tis true,
Even your faes will allow,
And your friends daurna say ye hae mair—
Irvine-side!
Your friends daurna say ye hae mair.
XVI
Muirland Jock! Muirland Jock!Whom the Lord gave a stock
Wad set up a tinkler in brass,
If ill manners were wit,
There's no mortal so fit
To prove the poor Doctor an ass—
Muirland Jock!
To prove the poor Doctor an ass.
XVII
Holy Will! Holy Will!There was wit i' your skull,
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor:
The timmer is scant,
When ye're taen for a saunt
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour—
Holy Will!
Ye should swing in a rape for an hour.
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XVIII
Poet Burns! Poet Burns!Wi' your priest-skelping turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Your Muse is a gipsy,
Yet were she ev'n tipsy,
She could ca' us nae waur than we are—
Poet Burns!
Ye could ca' us nae waur than we are.
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |