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.

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

Was heretic, damnable error,

Doctor Mac,

Was heretic, damnable error.

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

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewin';
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.

1 Of this piece Burns has given the following account, in a letter to Graham of Fintray:-"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 he is 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 inclosed 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 that there are a good many heavy stanzas in it, too."

To another correspondent the Poet says:-" Whether in the way of my trade I can be of any service to the Rev. Doctor, is, I fear, very doubtful. Ajax's shield consisted, I think, of seven bull-hides and a plate of brass,

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.

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.

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.

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.

Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie,
Are ye herding the penny,
Unconscious what danger awaits?

which altogether set Hector's utmost force at defiance. Alas! I am not a Hector, and the worthy Doctor's foes are as securely armed as Ajax was Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity, malevolence, self-conceit, envy,→ all strongly bound in a massy frame of brazen impudence."

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.

Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk,
Ye may slander the book,

And the book naught 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.

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 astride,

Ye only stood by when he sh

Poet Willie,

Ye only stood by when he sh—.

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 you nae better,

Barr Steenie,

Wi' people that ken you nae better.

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.

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.

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. 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 sae ye hae mair.

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

A tod meikle waur than the clerk;
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 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 spared,

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 Clackieith.

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINIRAY:

ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN SIR JAMES
JOHNSTON AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT
OF BOROUGHS.

FINTRAY, my stay in worldly strife,
Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life,
Are ye as idle's I am?
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg,
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg,

And ye shall see me try him.

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears
Who left the all-important cares

Of princes and their darlings'
And, bent on winning borough towns,
Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns,
And kissing barefit carlins.

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode,
Whistling his roaring pack abroad

Of mad unmuzzled lions;
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd,
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd
To every Whig defiance.

But cautious Queensberry left the war,
The unmanner'd dust might soil his star;
Besides, he hated bleeding;

But left behind him heroes bright,

Heroes in Cæsarean fight,

Or Ciceronian pleading.

Oh! for a throat like huge Mons-meg,

To muster o'er each ardent Whig

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner: