CIX.

THE KIRK'S ALARM;1

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 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.]

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 ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value.

Barr Steenie,2 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,3 Irvine side,
Wi' your turkey-cock pride,

Of manhood but sma' is your share,

Ye've the figure 'tis true,

Even your faes will allow, And your friends they dae grant you nae mair.

Muirland Jock,4 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,5 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.

1 Dr. Andrew Mitchell, of Monkton.

2 Mr. Stephen Young, of Barr.

3 Mr. George Smith, of Galston.

CX.

THE KIRK'S ALAR M.

A BALLAD.

[SECOND VERSION.]

[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 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,

Who 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.

4 Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk.

5 Holy Willie, alias William Fisher, Elder in Mauchline.

To confound the poor doctor at ance, Muirland George, To confound the poor doctor at ance.

XV.

Cessnockside, Cessnockside,
Wi' your turkey-cock pride,

O' manhood but sma' is your share;
Ye've the figure, it's true,

Even our faes maun allow,
And your friends daurna say ye hae mair,
Cessnockside,

And your friends daurna say ye hae mair.

XVI.

Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld,
There's a tod i' the fauld

A tod meikle waur than the clerk;1
Tho' ye downa do skaith,
Ye'll be in at the death,

And if ye canna bite ye can bark, Daddie Auld,

And if ye canna bite ye can bark.

poet, giving him an account of the unlooked-for death of his mare, Peg Nicholson, the successor of Jenny Geddes. She had suffered both in the employ of the joy ous priest and the thoughtless poet. She acquired her name from that frantic virago who attempted to murder George the Third.]

PEG Nicholson was a good bay mare,

As ever trode on airn;

But now she's floating down the Nith,
And past the mouth o' Cairn.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And rode thro' thick an' thin;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And wanting even the skin.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And ance she bore a priest;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
For Solway fish a feast.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And the priest he rode her sair;
And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was;
As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c.

XVII.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns,

Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Tho' your Muse is a gipsy,

Yet were she even tipsy,

She could ca' us nae waur than we are, Poet Burns,

She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

POSTSCRIPT.

Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird,
When your pen can be spar'd,

A copy o' this I bequeath,

On the same sicker score
I mention'd before,

To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith,
Afton's Laird,
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith.

CXI.

PEG NICHOLSON.

These hasty verses are to be found in a letter addressed to Nicol, of the High School of Edinburgh, by the

1 Gavin Hamilton.

CXII.

ON

CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD.

"Should the poor be flattered?"

SHAKSPEARE.

But now his radiant course is run,
For Matthew's course was bright;
His soul was like the glorious sun,
A matchless heav'nly light!

[Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman cf very agreeable manners and great propriety of character, usually lived in Edinburgh, dined constantly at Fortune's Tavern, and was a member of the Capillaire Club, which was composed of all who desired to be thought witty or joyous: he died in 1789: Burns, in a note to the Poer, says, "I loved the man much, and have not flattered his memory." Henderson seems indeed to have been universally liked. "In our travelling party," says Sir James Campbell, of Ardkinglass, was Matthew Henderson, then (1759) and afterwards well known and much esteemed in the town of Edinburgh; at that time an officer in the twenty-fifth regiment of foot, and like myself on his way to join the army; and I may say with truth, that in the course of a long life I have never known a more estimable character, than Matthew Henderson." Memoirs of Campbell, of Ardkinglass, p. 17.]

O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The meikle devil wi' a woodie