The Kirk of Scotland's Garland

written in 1789

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, you should streek on a rack, To strike Evildoers with terror; To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence Was heretic, damnable error, Doctor Mac! Twas heretic, damnable error. 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, Town of Ayr! Yes, Orator Bob is its ruin. 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 you, auld Satan maun have you, 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 Sculls are a storehouse o' Lead, Calvin's Sons! And your Sculls are a storehouse o' 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 ev'ry note o' the Damn'd, Rumble John! And roar ev'ry note o' the Damn'd. Simper James, Simper James, leave your 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 Pennie, Unconscious what danger awaits? With a jump, yell and howl, alarm ev'ry soul, For Hannibal's just at your gates, Singet Sawnie! For Hannibal's just at your gates. 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. Poet Willie! Ye only stood by where he shit. Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense, man, Wi' people that ken ye nae better, Barr Steenie! Wi'people that ken ye nae better. Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose, ye made but toom roose, O' hunting the wicked Lieutenant; But the Doctor's your mark, for the Lord's holy ark, He has cooper'd an' ca'd a wrang pin in, Jamie Goose! He has cooper'd an' ca'd a wrang pin in. 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, Davie Rant! Or the Kirk will be tint in a bog. 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 maun allow, And your friends dare na say ye hae mair, Cessnock-side! And your friends dare na sae ye hae mair. 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 confound the poor Doctor at ance, Muirland Jock! To confound the poor Doctor at ance. Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk; Tho' ye do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, For if ye canna bite ye can bark, Daddy Auld! If ye canna bite ye can bark. 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, Holy Will! Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 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, Clackleith, Afton's Laird, To that trusty auld Worthy, Clackleith]. [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.