Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
280 . The Kirk of Scotland’s Alarm: A Ballad
O
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.
To strike evil-doers wi’ terror: To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence, Was heretic, damnable error, Doctor Mac! ’Twas heretic, damnable error. To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewing, Provost John is still deaf to the Church’s relief, And Orator Bob is its ruin, Town of Ayr! Yes, Orator Bob is its ruin. 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! For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa. 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! And roar ev’ry note of the D—’d. 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! For puppies like you there’s but few. 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! For the foul thief is just at your gate. 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! Ye but smelt man, the place where he sh-t. 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! Wi’people that ken ye nae better. 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! He has cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t. The core is no nice o’ recruits; If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes, Davie Bluster! If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes. 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! And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. 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! To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 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! Ye’ll hae a calf’s head o’ sma value. 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! Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 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! Ye should swing in a rape for an hour. Ammunition you never can need; And your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead, Calvin’s sons! Your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead. 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. 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. 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.
Factor John! Factor John, whom the Lord made alone,