The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 15

XXI.

THE ORDINATION.

"For sense they little owe to frugal heav'n-- To please the mob they hide the little giv'n."

[This sarcastic sally was written on the admission of Mr. Mackinlay, as one of the ministers to the Laigh, or parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of April, 1786. That reverend person was an Auld Light professor, and his ordination incensed all the New Lights, hence the bitter levity of the poem. These dissensions have long since past away: Mackinlay, a pious and kind-hearted sincere man, lived down all the personalities of the satire, and though unwelcome at first, he soon learned to regard them only as a proof of the powers of the poet.]

Kilmarnock wabsters fidge an' claw, An' pour your crees.h.i.+e nations; An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, Of a' denominations, Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', An' there tak up your stations; Then aff to Begbie's in a raw, An' pour divine libations For joy this day.

Curst Common-Sense, that imp o' h.e.l.l, Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder;[14]

But Oliphant aft made her yell, An' Russell sair misca'd her; This day Mackinlay taks the flail, And he's the boy will blaud her!

He'll clap a shangan on her tail, An' set the bairns to daud her Wi' dirt this day.

Mak haste an' turn King David owre, An' lilt wi' holy clangor; O' double verse come gie us four, An' skirl up the Bangor: This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, For Heresy is in her pow'r, And gloriously she'll whang her Wi' pith this day.

Come, let a proper text be read, An' touch it aff wi' vigour, How graceless Ham[15] leugh at his dad, Which made Canaan a niger; Or Phineas[16] drove the murdering blade, Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour; Or Zipporah,[17] the scauldin' jad, Was like a bluidy tiger I' th' inn that day.

There, try his mettle on the creed, And bind him down wi' caution, That stipend is a carnal weed He taks but for the fas.h.i.+on; And gie him o'er the flock, to feed, And punish each transgression; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient thres.h.i.+n', Spare them nae day.

Now, auld Kilmarnock, c.o.c.k thy tail, And toss thy horns fu' canty; Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, Because thy pasture's scanty; For lapfu's large o' gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, An' runts o' grace the pick and wale, No gi'en by way o' dainty, But ilka day.

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, To think upon our Zion; And hing our fiddles up to sleep, Like baby-clouts a-dryin': Come, screw the pegs, wi' tunefu' cheep, And o'er the thairms be tryin'; Oh, rare! to see our elbucks wheep, An' a' like lamb-tails flyin'

Fu' fast this day!

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' airn, Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin', As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, Has proven to its ruin: Our patron, honest man! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewin'; And like a G.o.dly elect bairn He's wal'd us out a true ane, And sound this day.

Now, Robinson, harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever.

Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they'll think you clever; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a shaver; Or to the Netherton repair, And turn a carpet-weaver Aff-hand this day.

Mutrie and you were just a match We never had sic twa drones: Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, Just like a winkin' baudrons: And ay' he catch'd the t.i.ther wretch, To fry them in his caudrons; But now his honour maun detach, Wi' a' his brimstane squadrons, Fast, fast this day.

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes She's swingein' through the city; Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays!

I vow it's unco pretty: There, Learning, with his Greekish face, Grunts out some Latin ditty; And Common Sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint this day.

But there's Morality himsel', Embracing all opinions; Hear, how he gies the t.i.ther yell, Between his twa companions; See, how she peels the skin an' fell.

As ane were peelin' onions!

Now there--they're packed aff to h.e.l.l, And banished our dominions, Henceforth this day.

O, happy day! rejoice, rejoice!

Come bouse about the porter!

Morality's demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter: Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys, That Heresy can torture: They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, And cowe her measure shorter By th' head some day.

Come, bring the t.i.ther mutchkin in, And here's for a conclusion, To every New Light[18] mother's son, From this time forth Confusion: If mair they deave us wi' their din, Or Patronage intrusion, We'll light a s.p.u.n.k, and ev'ry skin, We'll rin them aff in fusion Like oil, some day.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 14: Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigh Kirk.]

[Footnote 15: Genesis, ix. 22.]

[Footnote 16: Numbers, xxv. 8.]

[Footnote 17: Exodus, iv. 25.]

[Footnote 18: "New Light" is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religions opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended.]

XXII.

THE CALF.

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN.

On his text, MALACHI, iv. 2--"And ye shall go forth, and grow up as CALVES of the stall."

[The laugh which this little poem raised against Steven was a loud one. Burns composed it during the sermon to which it relates and repeated it to Gavin Hamilton, with whom he happened on that day to dine. The Calf--for the name it seems stuck--came to London, where the younger brother of Burns heard him preach in Covent Garden Chapel, in 1796.]

Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true, Though Heretics may laugh; For instance; there's yoursel' just now, G.o.d knows, an unco Calf!

And should some patron be so kind, As bless you wi' a kirk, I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, Ye're still as great a Stirk.

But, if the lover's raptur'd hour Shall ever be your lot, Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power, You e'er should be a stot!

Tho', when some kind, connubial dear, Your but-and-ben adorns, The like has been that you may wear A n.o.ble head of horns.

And in your lug, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowte, Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank among the nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a gra.s.sy hillock, Wi' justice they may mark your head-- "Here lies a famous Bullock!"

XXIII.

TO JAMES SMITH.

"Friends.h.i.+p! mysterious cement of the soul!

Sweet'ner of life and solder of society!

I owe thee much!--"

BLAIR.