The Kirk's Alarm;[1] A Satire. (first Version.) Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis


Orthodox orthodoxA
Wha believe in John KnoxA
Let me sound an alarm to your conscienceB
There's a heretic blastC
Has been blawn in the wastC
That what is no sense must be nonsenseD
Dr Mac Dr MacE
You should stretch on a rackE
To strike evil doers wi' terrorF
To join faith and senseD
Upon ony pretenceD
Is heretic damnable errorF
Town of Ayr town of AyrG
It was mad I declareH
To meddle wi' mischief a brewingI
Provost John is still deafJ
To the church's reliefK
And orator Bob is its ruinL
D'rymple mild D'rymple mildC
Thro' your heart's like a childC
And your life like the new driven snawL
Yet that winna save yeM
Auld Satan must hav yeM
For preaching that three's ane an' twaN
Rumble John Rumble JohnL
Mount the steps wi' a groanL
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'dC
Then lug out your ladleO
Deal brimstone like adleO
And roar every note of the danm'dC
Simper James Simper JamesD
Leave the fair Killie damesD
There's a holier chase in your viewP
I'll lay on your headC
That the pack ye'll soon leadC
For puppies like you there's but fewP
Singet Sawney Singet SawneyL
Are ye herding the pennyL
Unconscious what evil awaitC
Wi' a jump yell and howlO
Alarm every soulO
For the foul thief is just at your gateC
Daddy Auld Daddy AuldC
There's a tod in the fauldC
A tod meikle waur than the clerkQ
Though yo can do little skaithR
Ye'll be in at the deathR
And gif ye canna bite ye may barkS
Davie Bluster Davie BlusterF
If for a saint ye do musterF
The corps is no nice of recruitsD
Yet to worth let's be justC
Royal blood ye might boastC
If the ass was the king of the brutesD
Jamy Goose Jamy GooseD
Ye ha'e made but toom rooseD
In hunting the wicked lieutenantC
But the Doctor's your markS
For the L d's haly arkS
He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in'tC
Poet Willie Poet WillieC
Fie the Doctor a volleyC
Wi' your liberty's chain and your witC
O'er Pegasus' sideC
Ye ne'er laid astrideC
Ye but smelt man the place where heC
Andro Gouk Andro GoukS
Ye may slander the bookS
And the book not the waur let me tell yeC
Ye are rich and look bigS
But lay by hat and wigS
And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' valueP
Barr Steenie Barr SteenieL
What mean ye what mean yeC
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matterF
Ye may ha'e some pretenceD
To havins and senseD
Wi' people wha ken ye nae betterF
Irvine side Irvine sideC
Wi' your turkey cock prideC
Of manhood but sum' is your shareH
Ye've the figure 'tis trueP
Even your faes will allowO
And your friends they dae grunt you nae mairH
Muirland Jock Muirland JockS
When the L d makes a rockS
To crush Common sense for her sinsD
If ill manners were witC
There's no mortal so fitC
To confound the poor Doctor at anceD
Holy Will Holy WillO
There was wit i' your skullO
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poorT
The timmer is scantC
When ye're ta'en for a sauntC
Wha should swing in a rape for an hourF
Calvin's sons Calvin's sonsD
Seize your spir'tual gunsD
Ammunition you never can needC
Your hearts are the stuffU
Will be powther enoughU
And your skulls are storehouses o' leadC
Poet Burns Poet BurnsD
Wi' your priest skelping turnsD
Why desert ye your auld native shireV
Your muse is a gipsieD
E'en tho' she were tipsieD
She could ca' us nae waur than we areW

Robert Burns


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