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But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,

Then set him down, and twa or three
Gude fellows wi' him:

And port, O port! shine thou a wee,
And THEN ye'll see him!

Now, by the Pow'rs o' verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!-
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,

They sair misca' thee;

I'd take the rascal by the nose,

Wad say, "Shame fa' thee."

The Kirk of Scotland's Alarm.1

A Ballad.

Tune-"Come rouse, Brother Sportsman !"

ORTHODOX! orthodox, who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:
A heretic blast has been blown in the West,
That what is no sense must be nonsense,
Orthodox! That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Doctor Mac! Doctor Mac, you should streek on a rack,
To strike evil-doers wi' terror:

To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence,

Was heretic, damnable error,

Doctor Mac!2 "Twas heretic, damnable error.

Another example in the kind of which he was prolific in 1785-86. Dr M'Gill's heretical Essay on the Death of Our Lord was published in 1786. There was a clamour, and a Committee of the General Assembly, including Holy Willie, discussed the book (July 15, 1789). It is, therefore, obvious that Burns's charge of petty larceny was not accepted by the Kirk, Burns

circulated the satire privately, but Dr M'Gill had to thole the Kirk's censure.

The piece was first printed by Stewart in 1801, without the postscripts. The MSS. differ very much from each other in the number and order of the verses, and present a large number of minor variations. 2 Dr M'Gill, Ayr.-R. B.

Town of Ayr! town of Ayr, it was rash, I declare,

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing,1

Provost John2 is still deaf to the Church's relief,

And Orator Bob3 is its ruin,

Town of Ayr! Yes, Orator Bob is its ruin.

D'rymple mild! D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child's,
And your life like the new-driven snaw,

Yet that winna save you, auld Satan must have you,
For preaching that three's ane an' twa,

D'rymple mild ! For preaching that three's ane an' twa.

Calvin's sons! Calvin's sons, seize your spiritual guns,
Ammunition you never can need;

Your hearts are the stuff will be powder enough,

And your skulls are a storehouse o' lead,

Calvin's sons! Your skulls are a storehouse o' lead.

Rumble John! rumble John, mount the steps with a groan,
Cry, "the Book is with heresy cramm'd;

Then out wi' your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle,*
And roar ev'ry note of the D-'d.

Rumble John! And roar ev'ry note of the D-'d.

Simper James! simper James, leave your fair Killie dames,
There's a holier chase in your view:

I'll lay on your head, that the pack you'll soon lead,
For puppies like you there's but few,


Simper James! For puppies like you there's but few.

Singet Sawnie! singet Sawnie, are ye huirdin the penny,
Unconscious what danger awaits?

With a jump, yell, and howl, alarm ev'ry soul,
For Hannibal's just at your gates,

Singet Sawnie!7 For Hannibal's just at your gates.

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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 sh-t,

Poet Willie! Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t.

Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye?

If ye meddle nae mair wi' the matter,

Ye may hae some pretence, man, to havins* and sense, man, Wi' people that ken ye nae better,

Barr Steenie 12 Wi' people that ken ye nae better.

Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose, ye made but toom roose,b
In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;

But the Doctor's your mark, for the L-d's holy ark,
He has cooper'd an' ca'd a wrang pin in't,

Jamie Goose He has cooper'd an' ca'd a wrang pin in't.

Davie Bluster! Davie Bluster, for a saint if ye muster,
The core is no nice o' recruits;

Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast,
If the Ass were the king o' the brutes,*

Davie Bluster !5 If the Ass were the king o' the brutes.

Cessnock-side! Cessnock-side, wi' your turkey-cock pride,
Of manhood but sma' is your share :

Ye've the figure, 'tis true, ev'n your foes maun allow,
And your friends dare na say ye hae mair,

Cessnock-side! And your friends dare na say ye hae mair.

good manners.

1 William Peebles, in Newton-uponAyr, a poetaster, who, among many other things, published an ode on the Centenary of the Revolution, in which was the line,

"And bound in Liberty's endearing chain."-R. B.

2 Stephen Young, of Barr.-R.B.

8 James Young, in New Cumnock, who had lately been foiled in an ecclesiastical prosecution against a Lieutenant Mitchel-R.B.

bempty boast.

The Glenriddell MS. gives this verse quite differently :

"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."
5 David Grant, Ochiltree.-R.B.
6 George Smith, Galston.-R.B.

Muirland Jock! muirland Jock, when the L-d makes a rock, To crush common-sense for her sins ;1

If ill-manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit

To confound the poor Doctor at ance,2

Muirland Jock ! To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Andro Gowk! Andro Gowk, ye may slander the Book,
An' the Book nought the waur, let me tell ye;
Tho' ye're rich, an' look big, yet, lay by hat an' wig,
An' ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value,

Andro Gowk 14 Ye'll hae a calf's head o'sma' value.

Daddy Auld! daddy Auld, there's a toda in the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than the clerk;


Tho' ye do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death,

For gif ye canna bite, ye may bark,

Daddy Auld! Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Holy Will! holy Will, there was wit in 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.

Poet Burns! poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelpin turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?

Your muse is a gipsy, yet were she e'en tipsy,
She could ca' us nae waur than we are,

Poet Burns! She could ca' us nae waur than we are.


Factor John! Factor John, whom the L-d made alone,
And ne'er made anither, thy peer,

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Thy poor servant, the Bard, in respectful regard,
He presents thee this token sincere,

Factor John! He presents thee this token sincere.

Afton's Laird! Afton's Laird, when your pen can be spared.

A copy of this I bequeath,

On the same sicker score as I mention'd before,

To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith,

Afton's Laird! To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith.

Sonnet on receiving a favour.1
10 Aug., 1789.

Addressed to ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. of Fintry.
I CALL no Goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns:
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gifts still dearer, as the giver you.
Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night!
If aught that giver from my mind efface,
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace,
Then roll to me along your wand'ring spheres,
Only to number out a villain's years!
I lay my hand upon my swelling breast,
And grateful would, but cannot speak the rest.

Extemporaneous Effusion

On being appointed to an Excise division.2

SEARCHING auld wives' barrels,

Ochon the day!

That clarty barm should stain my laurels :
But what'll ye say?

These movin' things ca'd wives an' weans,
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes!

1The "sonnet" has fourteen lines, but no other trace of a sonnet's structure.

2 The occasion is the same,

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