THE KIRK'S ALARM:* A SATIRE. ORTHODOX, Orthodox, wha believe in John 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, † Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack, To strike evil doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; 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 an' 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, And roar every note of the damn'd. Simper James, Simper James, leave the fair There's a holier chace in your view; Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do muster, I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead, For puppies like you there's but few. Unconscious what evils await; The corps is no nice of recruits; Yet to worth lets be just, royal blood ye might boast, If the ass was the king of the brutes. Jamie Goose,† Jamie 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, Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit; Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. Andro Gouk, 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 hae a calf's head o' sma' value. Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, what mean ye? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Irvine side,** Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock 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 L-d makes a rock To crush Common Sense for her sins, Holy Will, Holy Will, there was wit i' your When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul,,The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a For the foul thief is just at your gate. Daddy Auld,tt 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 if ye canna bite ye may bark. Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelp- | And new-light herds could nicely drub, ing turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire; The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, What herd like R-II tell'd his tale, This piece was among the first of our Author's pro. ductions which he submitted to the public; and was occasioned by a dispute between two clergymen, near Kilmarnock. Or pay their skin; Could shake them o'er the burning dub, Or heave them in. Sic twa-O! do I live to see't, While new-light herds wi' laughin' spite, A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, -8, shaul, We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, Till they agree. Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, There's scarce a new herd that we get, I hope frae heav'n to see them yet De has been lang our fae, Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief, We thought aye death wad bring relief, But he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him, A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him. And mony a ane that I could tell, There S-h for ane, I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, And that ve'll fin'. O! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, Mll's close pervous excellence, The Spanish empire's tint ahead, An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead; The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, An' our guidwife's wee birdy cocks; The tane is game, a bluidy devil, But to the hen-birds unco civil; The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin', But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden! Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit, An' cry till ye be hearse an' rupit ; For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel, An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal; E'en mony a plack, an' mony a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little feck! Ye bonnie lasses dight your een, For some o' you hae tint a frien': In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en What ye'll ne'er hae to gi'e again. Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowff an' dowie now they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, For Embro' wells are grutten dry. O Eighty-nine thou's but a bairn, An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn! Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care, Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, VERSES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON. WE cam na here to view your warks Your porter dought na hear us; LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO J—N R—K—N, AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMMEDIATELY AFTER the poet's death. HE who of R-k-n sang, lies stiff and dead, And a green grassy hillock hides his head; Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed! At a meeting of the DUMFRIES-SHIRE VOLUNTEERS, held to commemorate the anniversary of RODNEY'S victory, April 12th 1782, BURNS was called upon for a Song, instead of which he delivered the following LINES: INSTEAD of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost ; That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n! that we found, For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. The next in succession, I'll give you the King. Whoe'er would betray him on high may he swing; And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, As built on the base of the great Revolution; And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd, Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd; And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial. STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. The stream adown its hazelly path, THICKEST night o'erhangs my dwelling! Crystal streamlets gently flowing, In the cause of right engaged, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged, But the heavens deny'd success. Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, Not a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before us--But a world without a friend! CLARINDA. CLARINDA, mistress of my soul, To what dark cave of frozen night We part, but by these precious drops, She, the fair sun of all her sex, And shall a glimmering planet fix A VISION. As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care. The winds were laid, the air was still, The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant echoing glens reply. Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, The cauld blue north was streaming forth Like fortune's favours, tint as win. By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,t Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin look had daunted me; And frae his harp sie strains did flow, As ever met a Briton's ear! He sang wi' joy his former day, COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS ΤΟ MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE. REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart, A name, which to love was the mark of a true But now 'tis despised and neglected: * Variation. To join yon river on the Strath. t Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear'd; When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. This poem, an imperfect copy of which was printed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's MS. with his last corrections. The scenery so finely described is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing by night on the banks of the river Clu den, and by the ruins of Lincluden-Abbey, founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of Malcom IV. of whose present situation the reader may find some account in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Antiquities of that division of the island. Such a time and such a place are well fitted for holding converse with aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, yet it may be presumed that no reader of taste, whatever his opinions may be, would forgive it being omit. • Strathallan, it is presumed, was one of the follow-ted. Our poet's prudence suppressed the song of Liers of the young Chevalier, and is supposed to be lying concealed in some cave of the Highlands, after the battle of Culloden. This song was written before the year 1788 berty, perhaps fortunately for his reputation. It may be questioned whether, even in the resources of his genius, a strain of poetry could have been found wor thy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation, Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; To ken what French mischief was brewin'; A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a If Venus yet had got his nose off; sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. My fathers, that name have rever'd on a throne; Still in prayers for King George I most heartily The Queen and the rest of the gentry, Or how the collieshankie works Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of In Britain's court kept up the game: mine; How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him' POEM. ON PASTORAL POETRY. My muse jilted me here, and turned a corner on me, and I have not got again into her good graces. Do me the justice to believe me sincere in my grateful remembrance of the many civilities you have honoured me with since I came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that IHAIL Poesie! thou nymph reserved! In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved Frae common sense, or sunk enerved have the honour to be, Revered Sir, 'Mang heaps o' clavers; And och o'er aft thy joes hae starved, 'Mid a' thy favours! Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, To death or marriage; In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives |