Poem by Robert Burns

The Kirk’s Alarm

ORTHODOX, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox,
  Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:
There’s a heretic blast has been blawn i’ the wast,
  ‘That what is not sense must be nonsense.’

Dr. Mac, 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 is still deaf to the church’s relief;
  And orator Bob is its ruin.

D’rymple mild, D’rymple mild, tho’ your heart’s like a child,
  And 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.

Rumble John, Rumble John, mount the steps wi’ a groan,
  Cry the book is wi’ heresy cramm’d;
Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstane like adle,
  And roar ev’ry note of the damn’d.

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.

Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, 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.

Daddy Auld, Daddy 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.

Davie Bluster, 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.

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.

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.

Andro Gouk, Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book,
  And the book no 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.

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.

Irvine Side, Irvine Side, wi’ your turkeycock pride,
  Of manhood but sma’ is your share;
Ye’ve the figure, ‘tis true, even your faes will allow,
  And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock, when the Lord 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, Holy Will, there was wit i’ your skull,
  When ye piifer’d the alms o’ the poor;
The timmer is scant when ye’re ta’en for a saint,
  Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.

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 storehouses o’ lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi’ your priest-skelping turns,
  Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Your muse is a gipsy, e’en tho’ she were tipsy
  She cou’d ca’ us nae waur than we are.

1. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
2. Blythe Was She
3. Farewell to Ballochmyle
4. Stay My Charmer
5. On a Bank of Flowers

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