ORTHODOX, Orthodox, who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience;
A heretic blast has been blown I’ the West
That what is not Sense must be Nonsense,Orthodox,
That what is not Sense must be Nonsense.
Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, ye should streek on a rack,
To strike Evildoers with terror;
To join FAITH and SENSE upon any pretence
Was heretic, damnable error, &c.
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, &c.
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, auld Satan maun have ye,
For preaching that three 's ane an' twa, &c.
Calvin’s Sons, Calvin’s Sons, seize your spiritual guns
Ammunition you never can need;
Your HEARTS are the stuff will be POWDER enough,
And your SCULLS are a storehouse o’ LEAD, &c.
And form your battalions wi’ speed;
With zeal battle-powder, be sure, double-load her,
And the bullets, Divinity-lead, Calvin’s sons,
And the &c.
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 ev'ry note of the DAMN'D, &c.
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, &c.
Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, are ye huirdin the PENNIE,
Unconscious what danger await?
With a jump, yell and howl, alarm ev'ry soul,
For Hannibal’s just at your gate, &c.
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 where he shit, &c.
Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, ye may slander the BOOK,
And the BOOK nought the waur, let me tell ye:
Ye ‘re rich and look big, but lay by hat and wig
And ye’ll hae a CALF’S-HEAD o’ sma’ value, &c.
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, &c.
Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, ye hae made but toom roose
O’ hunting the wicked Lieutenant;
But the Doctor 's your mark, for the Lord's holy ark,
He has couper'd an' ca'd a wrang pin in, &c.
Davie Rant, Davie Rant, wi’ a face like a saunt,
And a heart that wad poison a hog;
Raise an impudent roar, like a breaker lee-shore,
Or the KIRK will be tint in a bog, &c.
Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, for a Saunt if ye muster,
It’s a sign they’re no nice RECRUITS:
Yet to WORTH let ‘be just, Royal blood ye might boast,
If the ASS were the king o’ the BRUTES, &c.
Pauky Clark to George Gordon gi’e the Doctor a Cord-on,
And to grape for witch marks gi’e it o’er;
If ye pass for a Saint, it’s a sign, we maun grant,
That there ‘s few gentlemen i’ the cor’.
Cessnock-side, Cessnock-side, wi' your turkey-cock pride,
O’ manhood but sma' is your share;
Ye 've the figure, it’s true, even your faes maub allow,
And your friends dare na say ye hae mair, &c.
Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock, whom the Lord made a rock
To crush Common sense for her sins;
If ill-manners were Wit, there ‘s no mortal so fit
To confuse the poor Doctor at ance, &c.
Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, there ‘s a tod I’ the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than the CLERK:
Tho ‘ ye do little skaith ye’ll be in at the death,
For if ye canne bite ye can bark, &c.
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, &c.
Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi’ your priest-skelping turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Tho’ your Muse is a gipsey, yet were she even tipsey,
She could ca’ us nae waur than we are, Poet Burns,
She could ca’ us nae waur than we are.
[Afton’s Laird, Afton’s Laird, when your pen can be spar’d,
A copy o’ this I bequeath,
On the same sicker score as I mention’d before,
To that trusty auld Worthy, Clacklieth, Afton’s Laird,
To that trusty auld Worthy, Clacklieth.]
[Factor John, Factor John, whom the Lord made alone,
And ne’er made another thy peer,
Thy poor servant, the Bard, in respectful regard,
Presents thee this token sincere, Factor John,
Presents thee this token sincere.]