And get the brutes the power themsels,
To choose their herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
And Learning in a woodie dance,
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,

Be banish'd o'er the sea to France;

Let him bark there.

Then Shaw's and D'rymple's eloquence,
M'Gill's close nervous excellence,
M'Q's pathetic manly sense,

And guid M'Math,k

Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,
May a' pack aff.

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 in the wast,

That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Dr. Mac,m Dr. Mac,

You should stretch on a rack,

To strike evil-doers wi' terror;

To join faith and sense
Upon onie pretence,

Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr,
It was mad, I declare,

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewin';
Provost John is still deaf

To the church's relief,

And orator Bob" is its ruin.

Dance in a rope, i. e. be hanged.

A See page 210.

n Robert Aiken.

This poem was written a short time after the publication of

Dr. M'Gill's Essay. m Dr. M'Gill.

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, Tho' your heart 's like a child, And life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye,

your

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 brimstone like adle,P And roar every 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.

Signet Sawney, Signet 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 todt in your 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;

• Mr. Russel. Mr. My.

p Putrid water. 9 Mr. M'Kinlay. s Mr. A-d. t Fox. u Harm r Mr. Gt of 0-1-e.

M

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 holy ark,

He has cooper'd and caw'da 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 s―t.

Andro Gouk, Andro Gouk,
Ye may slander the book,

And the book nane the waur,d 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,e 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 turkey-cock pride,
Of manhood but sma' is your share :
Ye've the figure, 'tis true,
Ev'n your foes will allow,

And your friends, they dare grant you nae mair.

y Mr. Y-g of C-n-k.

b Mr. P-b-s of Ayr. d None the worse.

f Good manners.

z Empty praise.

a Driven.

c Dr. A. M-II.
e S-n Y-g of B-r.
g Mr. Sh of G-n.

Muirland Jock,h 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 once.
Holy Will, Holy Will,
There was wit i' your skull,

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor;
The timmerk is scant

When ye

're taen for a saunt,

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 poutherm 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 gypsie,

E'en tho' she were tipsie,

She cou'd ca' us nae waur" than we are.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.

O THOU, wha in the heavens dost dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best thysel',

Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell,
A' for thy glory,

And no for onie guid or ill

They 've done afore thee!

h Mr. S d. i An Elder in Me.

m Powder.

k Timber. n Worse.

1 Rope. • 'Holy Willie's Prayer is a piece of satire more exquisitely severe than any which Burns ever afterwards wrote; but, unfor tunately, cast in a form most daringly profane.'-Sir Waller Scott, Quarterly Review, vol. 1, p. 22.

I bless and praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here afore thy sight,

A burnin' an' a

For gifts an' grace, shinin' light,

To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get such exaltation?
I, wha deserve such just damnation,
For broken laws,

Five thousand years 'fore my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plung'd me into hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin' lake,

Where damned devils roar and yell,
Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample,
To show thy grace is great and ample;
I'm here a pillar in thy temple,

Strong

as a rock,

A guide, a buckler, an' example

To a' thy flock.

O Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear,

When drinkers drink, and swearers swear And singin' there and dancin' here,

Wi' great an' sma':

For I am keepit by thy fear,

Free frae them a'.

But yet, O Lord! confess I must,
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust,
An' sometimes too, wi' warldly trust,
Vile self gets in;

But thou remembers we are dust,

Defil'd in sin.