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The Complete Works

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: nobody 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 passed 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 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 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, damnable 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 Bluster,^[85] 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.
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-cock 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.
 

CX. THE KIRK’S ALARM. 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 conscience—
There’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 are an’ twa,
D’rymple mild,
For preaching that three’s are 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.
Rumble John, Rumble John,
Mount the steps with a groan,
Cry the book is with heresy cramm’d;
Then lug out your ladle,
Deal brimstone like aidle,
And roar every note o’ the damn’d,
Rumble John,
And roar every note o’ the damn’d.
VII.
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,
Simper James,
For puppies like you there’s but few.
VIII.
Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie,
Are ye herding the penny,
Unconscious what danger awaits?
With a jump, yell, and howl,
Alarm every soul,
For Hannibal’s just at your gates,
Singet Sawnie,
For Hannibal’s just at your gates.
IX.
Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk,
Ye may slander the book,
And the book nought the waur—let me tell you;
Tho’ ye’re rich and look big,
Yet lay by hat and wig,
And ye’ll hae a calf’s-head o’ sma’ value,
Andrew Gowk,
And ye’ll hae a calf’s-head o’ sma’ value.
X.
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 only stood by when he –,
Poet Willie,
Ye only stood by when he –.
XI.
Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie,
What mean ye? what mean ye?
If ye’ll meddle nae mair wi’ the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence, man,
To havins and sense, man,
Wi’ people that ken ye nae better,
Barr Steenie,
Wi’ people that ken ye nae better.
XII.
Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose,
Ye hae made but toom roose,
O’ hunting the wicked lieutenant;
But the doctor’s your mark,
For the L—d’s holy ark,
He has cooper’d and ca’d a wrong pin in’t,
Jamie Goose,
He has cooper’d and ca’d a wrong pin in’t.
XIII.
Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster,
For a saunt if ye muster,
It’s a sign they’re no nice o’ recruits,
Yet to worth let’s be just,
Royal blood ye might boast,
If the ass were the king o’ the brutes,
Davie Bluster,
If the ass were the king o’ the brutes.
XIV.
Muirland George, Muirland George,
Whom the Lord made a scourge,
To claw common sense for her sins;
If ill manners were wit,
There’s no mortal so fit,
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;^[93]
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.
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 mentioned 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 poet, giving him on 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 joyous 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 flouting 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.
 

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 of 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 Poem, 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
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,
O’er hurcheon hides,
And like stock-fish come o’er his studdie
Wi’ thy auld sides!
He’s gane! he’s gane! he’s frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e’er was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mourn
By wood and wild,
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn,
Frae man exil’d!
Ye hills! near neebors o’ the starns,
That proudly cock your cresting cairns!
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,
Where echo slumbers!
Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!
Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz’lly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin’ down your glens,
Wi’ toddlin’ din,
Or foaming strang, wi’ hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin!
Mourn, little harebells o’er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie,
In scented bow’rs;
Ye roses on your thorny tree,
The first o’ flow’rs.
At dawn, when ev’ry grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at its head,
At ev’n, when beans their fragrance shed
I’ th’ rustling gale,
Ye maukins whiddin thro’ the glade,
Come join my wail.
Mourn, ye wee songsters o’ the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;
Ye curlews calling thro’ a clud;
Ye whistling plover;
An’ mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood!—
He’s gane for ever!
Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;
Ye fisher herons, watching eels:
Ye duck and drake, wi’ airy wheels
Circling the lake;
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.
Mourn, clam’ring craiks, at close o’ day,
‘Mang fields o’ flowering clover gay;
And when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.
Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow’r,
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow’r,
What time the moon, wi’ silent glow’r,
Sets up her horn,
Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour
’Till waukrife morn!
O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!
Oft have ye heard my canty strains:
But now, what else for me remains
But tales of woe?
And frae my een the drapping rains
Maun ever flow.
Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head,
The gay, green, flow’ry tresses shear
For him that’s dead!
Thou, autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear:
Thou, winter, hurling thro’ the air
The roaring blast,
Wide, o’er the naked world declare
The worth we’ve lost!
Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light!
Mourn, empress of the silent night!
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,
My Matthew mourn!
For through your orbs he’s ta’en his flight,
Ne’er to return.
O, Henderson! the man—the brother!
And art thou gone, and gone for ever?
And hast thou crost that unknown river
Life’s dreary bound?
Like thee, where shall I find another,
The world around?
Go to your sculptur’d tombs, ye great,
In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state!
But by thy honest turf I’ll wait,
Thou man of worth!
And weep the ae best fellow’s fate
E’er lay in earth.
THE EPITAPH
Stop, passenger!—my story’s brief,
And truth I shall relate, man;
I tell nae common tale o’ grief—
For Matthew was a great man.
If thou uncommon merit hast,
Yet spurn’d at fortune’s door, man,
A look of pity hither cast—
For Matthew was a poor man.
If thou a noble sodger art,
That passest by this grave, man,
There moulders here a gallant heart—
For Matthew was a brave man.
If thou on men, their works and ways,
Canst throw uncommon light, man,
Here lies wha weel had won thy praise—
For Matthew was a bright man.
If thou at friendship’s sacred ca’
Wad life itself resign, man,
Thy sympathetic tear maun fa’—
For Matthew was a kind man!
If thou art staunch without a stain,
Like the unchanging blue, man,
This was a kinsman o’ thy ain—
For Matthew was a true man.
If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire,
And ne’er guid wine did fear, man,
This was thy billie, dam and sire—
For Matthew was a queer man.
If ony whiggish whingin sot,
To blame poor Matthew dare, man,
May dool and sorrow be his lot!
For Matthew was a rare man.
 

CXIII. THE FIVE CARLINS. A SCOTS BALLAD

Tune—Chevy Chase.

[This is a local and political Poem composed on the contest between Miller, the younger, of Dalswinton, and Johnstone, of Westerhall, for the representation of the Dumfries and Galloway district of Boroughs. Each town or borough speaks and acts in character: Maggy personates Dumfries; Marjory, Lochmaben; Bess of Solway-side, Annan; Whiskey Jean, Kirkcudbright; and Black Joan, Sanquhar. On the part of Miller, all the Whig interest of the Duke of Queensberry was exerted, and all the Tory interest on the side of the Johnstone: the poet’s heart was with the latter. Annan and Lochmaben stood staunch by old names and old affections: after a contest, bitterer than anything of the kind remembered, the Whig interest prevailed.]

 
There were five carlins in the south,
They fell upon a scheme,
To send a lad to London town,
To bring them tidings hame.
Not only bring them tidings hame,
But do their errands there;
And aiblins gowd and honour baith
Might be that laddie’s share.
There was Maggy by the banks o’ Nith,
A dame wi’ pride eneugh;
And Marjory o’ the mony lochs,
A carlin auld and teugh.
And blinkin’ Bess of Annandale,
That dwelt near Solway-side;
And whiskey Jean, that took her gill
In Galloway sae wide.
And black Joan, frae Crighton-peel,
O’ gipsey kith an’ kin;—
Five wighter carlins were na found
The south countrie within.
To send a lad to London town,
They met upon a day;
And mony a knight, and mony a laird,
This errand fain wad gae.
O mony a knight, and mony a laird,
This errand fain wad gae;
But nae ane could their fancy please,
O ne’er a ane but twae.
The first ane was a belted knight,
Bred of a border band;
And he wad gae to London town,
Might nae man him withstand.
And he wad do their errands weel,
And meikle he wad say;
And ilka ane about the court
Wad bid to him gude-day.
The neist cam in a sodger youth,
And spak wi’ modest grace,
And he wad gae to London town,
If sae their pleasure was.
He wad na hecht them courtly gifts,
Nor meikle speech pretend;
But he wad hecht an honest heart,
Wad ne’er desert his friend.
Then wham to chuse, and wham refuse,
At strife thir carlins fell;
For some had gentlefolks to please,
And some wad please themsel’.
Then out spak mim-mou’d Meg o’ Nith,
And she spak up wi’ pride,
And she wad send the sodger youth,
Whatever might betide.
For the auld gudeman o’ London court
She didna care a pin;
But she wad send the sodger youth
To greet his eldest son.
Then slow raise Marjory o’ the Lochs
And wrinkled was her brow;
Her ancient weed was russet gray,
Her auld Scotch heart was true.
“The London court set light by me—
I set as light by them;
And I wilt send the sodger lad
To shaw that court the same.”
Then up sprang Bess of Annandale,
And swore a deadly aith,
Says, “I will send the border-knight
Spite o’ you carlins baith.
“For far-off fowls hae feathers fair,
And fools o’ change are fain;
But I hae try’d this border-knight,
I’ll try him yet again.”
Then whiskey Jean spak o’er her drink,
“Ye weel ken, kimmersa’,
The auld gudeman o’ London court,
His back’s been at the wa’.
“And mony a friend that kiss’d his caup,
Is now a fremit wight;
But it’s ne’er be sae wi’ whiskey Jean,—
We’ll send the border-knight.”
Says black Joan o’ Crighton-peel,
A carlin stoor and grim,—
“The auld gudeman, or the young gudeman,
For me may sink or swim.
“For fools will prate o’ right and wrang,
While knaves laugh in their sleeve;
But wha blaws best the horn shall win,
I’ll spier nae courtier’s leave.”
So how this mighty plea may end
There’s naebody can tell:
God grant the king, and ilka man,
May look weel to himsel’!