The Kirk's Alarm;[1] A Satire. (first Version.) Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: AABCCD EEFDDF GHIJKL CCLMMN LLCOOC DDPCCP LLCOOC CCQRRS FFDCCD DDCSSC CCCCCC SSCSSP LCFDDF CCHPOH SSDCCD OOTCCF DDCUUC DDVDDW| Orthodox orthodox | A |
| Wha believe in John Knox | A |
| Let me sound an alarm to your conscience | B |
| There's a heretic blast | C |
| Has been blawn in the wast | C |
| That what is no sense must be nonsense | D |
| - | |
| Dr Mac Dr Mac | E |
| You should stretch on a rack | E |
| To strike evil doers wi' terror | F |
| To join faith and sense | D |
| Upon ony pretence | D |
| Is heretic damnable error | F |
| - | |
| Town of Ayr town of Ayr | G |
| It was mad I declare | H |
| To meddle wi' mischief a brewing | I |
| Provost John is still deaf | J |
| To the church's relief | K |
| And orator Bob is its ruin | L |
| - | |
| D'rymple mild D'rymple mild | C |
| Thro' your heart's like a child | C |
| And your life like the new driven snaw | L |
| Yet that winna save ye | M |
| Auld Satan must hav ye | M |
| For preaching that three's ane an' twa | N |
| - | |
| Rumble John Rumble John | L |
| Mount the steps wi' a groan | L |
| Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd | C |
| Then lug out your ladle | O |
| Deal brimstone like adle | O |
| And roar every note of the danm'd | C |
| - | |
| Simper James Simper James | D |
| Leave the fair Killie dames | D |
| There's a holier chase in your view | P |
| I'll lay on your head | C |
| That the pack ye'll soon lead | C |
| For puppies like you there's but few | P |
| - | |
| Singet Sawney Singet Sawney | L |
| Are ye herding the penny | L |
| Unconscious what evil await | C |
| Wi' a jump yell and howl | O |
| Alarm every soul | O |
| For the foul thief is just at your gate | C |
| - | |
| Daddy Auld Daddy Auld | C |
| There's a tod in the fauld | C |
| A tod meikle waur than the clerk | Q |
| Though yo can do little skaith | R |
| Ye'll be in at the death | R |
| And gif ye canna bite ye may bark | S |
| - | |
| Davie Bluster Davie Bluster | F |
| If for a saint ye do muster | F |
| The corps is no nice of recruits | D |
| Yet to worth let's be just | C |
| Royal blood ye might boast | C |
| If the ass was the king of the brutes | D |
| - | |
| Jamy Goose Jamy Goose | D |
| Ye ha'e made but toom roose | D |
| In hunting the wicked lieutenant | C |
| But the Doctor's your mark | S |
| For the L d's haly ark | S |
| He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't | C |
| - | |
| Poet Willie Poet Willie | C |
| Fie the Doctor a volley | C |
| Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit | C |
| O'er Pegasus' side | C |
| Ye ne'er laid astride | C |
| Ye but smelt man the place where he | C |
| - | |
| Andro Gouk Andro Gouk | S |
| Ye may slander the book | S |
| And the book not the waur let me tell ye | C |
| Ye are rich and look big | S |
| But lay by hat and wig | S |
| And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value | P |
| - | |
| Barr Steenie Barr Steenie | L |
| What mean ye what mean ye | C |
| If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter | F |
| Ye may ha'e some pretence | D |
| To havins and sense | D |
| Wi' people wha ken ye nae better | F |
| - | |
| Irvine side Irvine side | C |
| Wi' your turkey cock pride | C |
| Of manhood but sum' is your share | H |
| Ye've the figure 'tis true | P |
| Even your faes will allow | O |
| And your friends they dae grunt you nae mair | H |
| - | |
| Muirland Jock Muirland Jock | S |
| When the L d makes a rock | S |
| To crush Common sense for her sins | D |
| If ill manners were wit | C |
| There's no mortal so fit | C |
| To confound the poor Doctor at ance | D |
| - | |
| Holy Will Holy Will | O |
| There was wit i' your skull | O |
| When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor | T |
| The timmer is scant | C |
| When ye're ta'en for a saunt | C |
| Wha should swing in a rape for an hour | F |
| - | |
| Calvin's sons Calvin's sons | D |
| Seize your spir'tual guns | D |
| Ammunition you never can need | C |
| Your hearts are the stuff | U |
| Will be powther enough | U |
| And your skulls are storehouses o' lead | C |
| - | |
| - | |
| Poet Burns Poet Burns | D |
| Wi' your priest skelping turns | D |
| Why desert ye your auld native shire | V |
| Your muse is a gipsie | D |
| E'en tho' she were tipsie | D |
| She could ca' us nae waur than we are | W |
Robert Burns
(1)
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About The Kirk's Alarm;[1] A Satire. (first Version.)
The Kirk's Alarm;[1] A Satire. (first Version.) is a poem by Robert Burns. This page includes the poem text, poet information, related topics, comments, and similar poems.