See from his cavern grim Oppression rise,
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:

Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times;
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong.
Hark, injured Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale,
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail!
Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains:
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign,
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,
To mourn the woes my country must endure,
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.'

O, COULD I give thee India's wealth,
As I this trifle send!

Because thy joy in both would be

To share them with a friend.

But golden sands did never grace

The Heliconian stream;

Then take what gold could never buy—
An honest Bard's esteem.

ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, NAMED ECHO

IN wood and wild, ye warbling throng,
Your heavy loss deplore;

Now half-extinct your powers of song,
Sweet Echo is no more.

1 Steward to the Duke of Queensberry.

THE KIRK'S ALARM.

Ye jarring, screeching things around,
Scream your discordant joys;
Now half your din of tuneless sound
With Echo silent lies.

233

THE KIRK'S ALARM.'

A SATIRE.

ORTHODOX, Orthodox,

Wha 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.

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

Is heretic, damnable error.

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

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;
Provost John is still deaf

To the Church's relief,

And Orator Bob' is its ruin.

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild,
Tho' your heart's like a child,

1 It is impossible to look back now to the civil war which then raged among the churchmen of the west of Scotland, without confessing that on either side there was much to regret, and not a little to blame; and no one can doubt that, in the, at best, unsettled state of Robert Burns' principles, the unhappy effect must have been powerful indeed, as to him. M'Gill and Dalrymple, the two ministers of the town of Ayr, had long been suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions. The gentry of the country took, for the most part, the side of M'Gill; the bulk of the lower orders espoused the cause of those who conducted the prosecution against this err ing Doctor. Gavin Hamilton, and all persons of his stamp, were, of course, on the side of M'Gill; Auld, and the Mauchline Elders, with his enemies. Mr. Robert Aiken, a writer in Ayr, had the principal management of M'Gill's cause. He was an intimate friend of Ham ilton, and through him had formed an acquaintance which now ripened into a warm friendship with Burns. M'Gill, Dalrymple, and their brethren were the New-light Pastors of his earliest "Satires." -Lockhart's Life of Burns, p. 60.

Robert Aiken, agent, or, as we should say, attorney for Dr. M'Gill

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.

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 storehouses of lead.

Rumble John, Rumble John,1
Mount the steps wi' a groan,
Cry, the book is with heresy cramm'd;
Then lug out your ladle,

Deal brimstone like adle,"
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.

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.

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.

THE KIRK'S ALARM.

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter
Ye may hae some pretence
To havins and sense

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose,'
Ye hae made but toom roose,
In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;
But the Doctor's your mark,-
For the Lord's haly ark,

He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrang 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 was the king o' the brutes.

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock,'
When the L 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.

Cessnockside, Cessnockside,

Wi' your turkey-cock pride,

4

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.

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.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns,
Wi' your priest-skelping turns,

1 Mr. Young. 2 Mr. Grant.

Mr. G. Smith. 6 Of Mauchline.

235

3 Mr. John Sheppard.
• Fox.
Gavin Hamilton

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.'

DAINTIE DAVIE.

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers;
And now come in my happy hours,
To wander wi' my Davie.

CHORUS.

Meet me on the warlock-knowe,
Daintie Davie, daintie Davie,
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear daintie Davie.

The crystal waters round us fa',
The merry birds are lovers a',

The scented breezes round us blaw,
A wandering wi' my Davie.
Meet me, &c.

When purple morning starts the hare,
To steal upon her early fare,

Then through the dews I will repair,
To meet my faithfu' Davie.
Meet me, &c.

When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o' Nature's rest,
I flee to his arms I lo'e best,

And that's my ain dear Davie.
Meet me, &c.

The chosen champions of the Auld Light, in Ayrshire, presented, In many particulars of personal conduct and demeanour, as broad a mark as ever tempted the shafts of a satirist. That Burns has grossly overcharged the portraits of them, deepening the shadows that were sufficiently dark. and excluding altogether those brighter, and perhaps softer, traits of character which redeemed the origin als within the sympathies of many of the worthiest and best of men, seems equally clear.-Lockhart, p. 62.

A knoll where wizards have held tryste.