Since then, my honour'd, first of friends, On this poor being all depends, Let us th' important _now_ employ, And live as those who never die.--

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, Witness that filial circle round, (A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, A sight, pale envy to convulse,) Others now claim your chief regard; Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

CVIII.

TO A GENTLEMAN

WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO

CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE.

[These sarcastic lines contain a too true picture of the times in which they were written. Though great changes have taken place in court and camp, yet Austria, Russia, and Prussia keep the tack of Poland: n.o.body says a word of Denmark: emasculated Italy is still singing; opera girls are still dancing; but Chatham Will, glaikit Charlie, Daddie Burke, Royal George, and Geordie Wales, have all pa.s.sed to their account.]

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, And, faith, to me 'twas really new!

How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?

This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, To ken what French mischief was brewin'; Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin'; That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off; Or how the collieshangie works Atween the Russians and the Turks: Or if the Swede, before he halt, Would play anither Charles the Twalt: If Denmark, any body spak o't; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin'; How libbet Italy was singin'; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss: Or how our merry lads at hame, In Britain's court kept up the game: How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin'; Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in: How daddie Burke the plea was cookin', If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin; How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, Or if bare a--s yet were tax'd; The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls; If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails; Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, And no a perfect kintra cooser.-- A' this and mair I never heard of; And but for you I might despair'd of.

So, gratefu', back your news I send you, And pray, a' guid things may attend you!

_Ellisland, Monday morning_, 1790.

CIX.

THE KIRK'S ALARM;[76]

A SATIRE.

[FIRST VERSION.]

[The history of this Poem is curious. M'Gill, one of the ministers of Ayr, long suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions concerning original sin and the Trinity, published "A Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ," which, in the opinion of the more rigid portion of his brethren, inclined both to Arianism and Socinianism.

This essay was denounced as heretical, by a minister of the name Peebles, in a sermon preached November 5th, 1788, and all the west country was in a flame. The subject was brought before the Synod, and was warmly debated till M'Gill expressed his regret for the disquiet he had occasioned, explained away or apologized for the challenged pa.s.sages in his Essay, and declared his adherence to the Standard doctrines of his mother church. Burns was prevailed upon to bring his satire to the aid of M'Gill, but he appears to have done so with reluctance.]

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,[77] Dr. Mac, You should stretch on a rack, To strike evil doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense Upon ony pretence, Is heretic, d.a.m.nable error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, It was mad, I declare, To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; Provost John[78] is still deaf To the church's relief, And orator Bob[79] is its ruin.

D'rymple mild,[80] D'rymple mild, Thro' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, Auld Satan must hav ye, For preaching that three's ane an' twa.

Rumble John,[81] 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, And roar every note of the danm'd.

Simper James,[82] 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,[83] Singet Sawney, Are ye herding the penny, Unconscious what evil await?

Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, Alarm every soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld,[84] Daddy Auld, There's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk; Though yo can do little skaith, Ye'll be in at the death, And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Davie Bl.u.s.ter,[85] Davie Bl.u.s.ter, 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 a.s.s was the king of the brutes.

Jamy Goose,[86] Jamy Goose, Ye ha'e made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked lieutenant; But the Doctor's your mark, For the L--d's haly ark; He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't.

Poet Willie,[87] Poet Willie, Fie the Doctor a volley, Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit; O'er Pegasus' side Ye ne'er laid astride, Ye but smelt, man, the place where he ----.

Andro Gouk,[88], Andro Gouk, 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 ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value.

Barr Steenie,[89] Barr Steenie, What mean ye, what mean ye?

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Ye may ha'e some pretence To havins and sense, Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

Irvine side,[90] Irvine side, Wi' your turkey-c.o.c.k pride, Of manhood but sum' is your share, Ye've the figure 'tis true, Even your faes will allow, And your friends they dae grunt you nae mair.

Muirland Jock,[91] 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.

Holy Will,[92] Holy Will, There was wit i' your skull, When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; The timmer is scant, When ye're ta'en for a saunt, Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, Seize your spir'tual 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 gipsie, E'en tho' she were tipsie, She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 76: This Poem was written a short time after the publication of M'Gill's Essay.]

[Footnote 77: Dr. M'Gill.]

[Footnote 78: John Ballantyne.]

[Footnote 79: Robert Aiken.]

[Footnote 80: Dr. Dalrymple.]

[Footnote 81: Mr. Russell.]

[Footnote 82: Mr. M'Kinlay.]