For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, With grateful pride we own your many favours; And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.

CVI.

SCOTS PROLOGUE,

FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT NIGHT,

DUMFRIES.

[Burns did not shine in Prologues: he produced some vigorous lines, but they did not come in harmony from his tongue, like the songs in which he recorded the loveliness of the dames of Caledonia. Sutherland was manager of the theatre, and a writer of rhymes. Burns said his players were a very decent set: he had seen them an evening or two.]

WHAT needs this din about the town o' Lon❜on,
How this new play an' that new sang is comin'?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend, like whisky, when im-

ported?

Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame?
For comedy abroad he needna toil,

A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece
To gather matter for a serious piece;
There's themes enough in Caledonian story,
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.—

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce;
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the
sword,

'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord,
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing,
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of
ruin?

O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene,
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms.
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman;
A woman- -tho' the phrase may seem uncivil-
As able and as cruel as the Devil!
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page,
But Douglases were heroes every age:

And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas followed to the martial strife,
Perhaps if bowls row right, and right succeeds,
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land
Would take the muses' servants by the hand;
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them,
And where ye justly can commend, commend

them;

And aiblins when they winna stand the test,
Wink hard and say the folks hae done their best!
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation,
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack,
And warsle time, an' lay him on his back!
For us and for our stage should ony spier,
"Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle
here?"

My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow,
We have the honour to belong to you!
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,
But, like good mithers, shore before ye strike.—
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us,
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness
We've got frae a' professions, sets, and ranks:
God help us! we're but poor-ye'se get but thanks.

CVII. SKETCH.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[This is a picture of the Dunlop family: it was printed from a hasty sketch, which the poet called extempore. The major whom it mentions was General Andrew Dunlop, who died in 1804: Rachel Dunlop was afterwards married to Robert Glasgow, Esq. Another of the Dunlops served with distinction in India, where he rose to the rank of General. They were a gallant race, and all distinguished.]

THIS day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again :
I see the old bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine,
To wheel the equal, dull routine.

The absent lover, minor heir,

In vain assail him with their prayer;
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.

Will
you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow—
-That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me a moralizing,
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone for ever."
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
"The passing moment's all we rest on!"
Rest on-for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes-all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of Nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight:
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woful night.—
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.

KIND Sir, I've read your paper through,
And, faith, to me 'twas really new!
How guessed 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 as 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.

Arianism and Socinianism. This Essay was denounced as heretical, by a minister of the name of 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 passages 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 conscienceThere'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,

Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr,

It was mad I declare,

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; Provost John2 is still deaf To the church's relief,

And orator Bob3 is its ruin.

D'rymple mild,1 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 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.

(1) Dr. M'Gill. (2) John Ballantyne. (3) Robert Aiken. (4) Dr. Dalrymple. (5) Mr. Russell. (6) Mr. M'Kinlay.

Singet Sawney,' 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, Daddy Auld,

There's a tod in the fauld,

A tod meikle waur than the clerk;
Though 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;
Yet to worth let's be just,
Royal blood ye might boast,
If the ass was the king of the brutes.
Jamie Goose,10 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 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

Andro Gouk,12 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,13 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.

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.

Holy Will, 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 saint, 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 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.

CX.

THE KIRK'S ALARM.

A BALLAD.

[SECOND VERSION.]

66

[This version is from the papers of Miss Logan of Afton. The origin of the Poem is thus related to Graham of Fintry by the poet himself: Though I dare say you have none of the Solemn League and Covenant fire which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book, God help him, poor man! Though one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest, of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor doctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of being thrown out (9th December, 1790) to the mercy of the winter winds. The enclosed ballad on that business is, I confess, too local; but I laughed myself at some conceits in it, though I am convinced in my conscience there are a good many heavy stanzas in it

(1) Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk.

(2) Holy Willie, alias William Fisher, Elder in Mauchline.

too." The Kirk's Alarm was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. Cromek calls it, "A silly satire, on some worthy ministers of the gospel, in Ayrshire."]

I.

ORTHODOX, Orthodox,

Wha believe in John Knox,

Let me sound an alarm to your conscienceThere's a heretic blast

Has been blawn i' the wast,

That what is not sense must be nonsense, Orthodox,

That what is not sense must be nonsense.

II.

Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac,
Ye should stretch on a rack,
And strike evil-doers wi' terror;
To join faith and sense,
Upon any pretence,

Was heretic damnable error,
Doctor Mac,

Was heretic damnable error.

III.

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

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,

And orator Bob is its ruin.

IV.

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,

Old Satan must have ye
For preaching that three's ane an' twa,
D'rymple mild,
For preaching that three's ane an' twa.

V.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, Seize your spiritual guns, Ammunition ye never can need;

Your hearts are the stuff,

Will be powder enough, And your skulls are a storehouse of lead, Calvin's sons, And your skulls are a storehouse of lead.

VI.

Runible John, Rumble John,
Mount the steps with a groan,

Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd;