| |
| 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. | 5 |
| |
| 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! 1 ’Twas heretic, damnable error. | 10 |
| |
| Town of Ayr! town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, | |
| To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewing, 2 | |
| Provost John 3 is still deaf to the Church’s relief, | |
| And Orator Bob 4 is its ruin, | |
| Town of Ayr! Yes, Orator Bob is its ruin. | 15 |
| |
| 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 you, auld Satan must have you, | |
| For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa, | |
| D’rymple mild! 5 For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa. | 20 |
| |
| 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! 6 And roar ev’ry note of the D—’d. | 25 |
| |
| 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! 7 For puppies like you there’s but few. | 30 |
| |
| Singet Sawnie! singet Sawnie, are ye huirdin the penny, | |
| Unconscious what evils await? | |
| With a jump, yell, and howl, alarm ev’ry soul, | |
| For the foul thief is just at your gate. | |
| Singet Sawnie! 8 For the foul thief is just at your gate. | 35 |
| |
| 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! 9 Ye but smelt man, the place where he sh-t. | 40 |
| |
| Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye? | |
| If ye meddle nae mair wi’ the matter, | |
| Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense, | |
| Wi’ people that ken ye nae better, | |
| Barr Steenie! 10 Wi’people that ken ye nae better. | 45 |
| |
| Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose, ye 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 an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t, | |
| Jamie Goose! 11 He has cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t. | 50 |
| |
| Davie Bluster! Davie Bluster, for a saint ye do 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! 12 If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes. | 55 |
| |
| 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 will allow, | |
| And your friends they dare grant you nae mair, | |
| Cessnock-side! 13 And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. | 60 |
| |
| Muirland Jock! 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, | |
| Muirland Jock! 14 To confound the poor Doctor at ance. | 65 |
| |
| 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-had o’ sma’ value, | |
| Andro Gowk! 15 Ye’ll hae a calf’s head o’ sma value. | 70 |
| |
| Daddy Auld! daddy Auld, there’a a tod 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! 16 Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. | 75 |
| |
| 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! 17 Ye should swing in a rape for an hour. | 80 |
| |
| 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. | 85 |
| |
| 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. | 90 |
| |
PRESENTATION STANZAS TO CORRESPONDENTS
Factor John! Factor John, whom the Lord made alone, | |
| And ne’er made anither, thy peer, | |
| Thy poor servant, the Bard, in respectful regard, | |
| He presents thee this token sincere, | |
| Factor John! He presents thee this token sincere. | 95 |
| |
| 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. | 100 |
