The Immortal Memory

Tonight is Burns nicht, the commemoration of the poet's birth in 1759 (which means his sesquicentenary is just three years down the road). Unfortunately, I have to work tomorrow which means that I can't toast Burns's memory with a ball of malt. However, I can post a poem or two.

So, here are two poems by Burns. The criterion of choice being that I like them. They're both works of a free man writing for free men. And each is worthy on its own account. I especially like the criticism of 'Poet Willie', who undoubtedly deserved what he got. But, a man's a man, for a' that.

To the Immortal Memory!









First: The Kirk of Scotland's Alarm

Orthodox! orthodox, who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:
A heretic blast has been blown in the West,
"That what is no sense must be nonsense,"
Orthodox! That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Doctor Mac! Doctor Mac, you should streek on a rack,
To strike evil-doers wi' terror:
To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence,
Was heretic, damnable error,
Doctor Mac!^1 'Twas heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr! town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing,^2
Provost John^3 is still deaf to the Church's relief,
And Orator Bob^4 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 must have you,
For preaching that three's ane an' twa,
D'rymple mild!^5 For preaching that three's ane an' twa.

Rumble John! rumble John, mount the steps with a groan,
Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd;
Then out wi' your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle,
And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd.
Rumble John!^6 And roar ev'ry note of 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 you'll soon lead,
For puppies like you there's but few,
Simper James!^7 For puppies like you there's but few.

Singet Sawnie! singet Sawnie, are ye huirdin the penny,
Unconscious what evils await?
With a jump, yell, and howl, alarm ev'ry soul,
For the foul thief is just at your gate.
Singet Sawnie!^8 For the foul thief is just at your gate.

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 but smelt, man, the place where he shit.
Poet Willie!^9 Ye but smelt man, the place where he shit.

Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye?
If ye meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense,
Wi' people that ken ye nae better,
Barr Steenie!^10 Wi'people that ken ye nae better.

Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose, ye made but toom roose,
In 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't,
Jamie Goose!^11 He has cooper'd an' ca'd a wrang pin in't.

Davie Bluster! Davie Bluster, for a saint ye do muster,
The corps is no nice o' recruits;

Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast,
If the Ass were the king o' the brutes,
Davie Bluster!^12 If the Ass were the king o' the brutes.

Irvine Side! Irvine Side, wi' your turkey-cock pride
Of manhood but sma' is your share:
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, ev'n your foes will allow,
And your friends they dare grant you nae mair,
Irvine Side!^13 And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.

Muirland Jock! muirland Jock, when the Lord makes 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!^14 To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Andro Gowk! Andro Gowk, ye may slander the Book,
An' the Book nought the waur, let me tell ye;
Tho' ye're rich, an' look big, yet, lay by hat an' wig,
An' ye'll hae a calf's-had o' sma' value,
Andro Gowk!^15 Ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma value.

Daddy Auld! daddy Auld, there'a 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 gif ye canna bite, ye may bark,
Daddy Auld!^16 Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Holy Will! holy Will, there was wit in your skull,
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor;
The timmer is scant when ye're taen for a saunt,
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour,
Holy Will!^17 Ye should swing in a rape for an hour.

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 skulls are a storehouse o' lead,
Calvin's sons! Your skulls are a storehouse o' lead.

Poet Burns! poet Burns, wi" your priest-skelpin turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Your muse is a gipsy, yet were she e'en tipsy,
She could ca'us nae waur than we are,
Poet Burns! She could ca'us nae waur than we are.

[Footnote 1: Dr. M'Gill, Ayr.-R.B,]

[Footnote 2: See the advertisement.-R.B.]

[Footnote 3: John Ballantine,-R.B.]

[Footnote 4: Robert Aiken.-R.B.]

[Footnote 5: Dr. Dalrymple, Ayr.-R.B.]

[Footnote 6: John Russell, Kilmarnock.-R.B.]

[Footnote 7: James Mackinlay, Kilmarnock.-R.B.]

[Footnote 8: Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.-R.B.]

[Footnote 9: William Peebles, in Newton-upon-Ayr, a poetaster, who, among many
other things, published an ode on the "Centenary of the Revolution," in which
was the line: "And bound in Liberty's endering chain."-R.B.]

[Footnote 10: Stephen Young of Barr.-R.B.]

[Footnote 11: James Young, in New Cumnock, who had lately been foiled in an
ecclesiastical prosecution against a Lieutenant Mitchel-R.B.]

[Footnote 12: David Grant, Ochiltree.-R.B.]

[Footnote 13: George Smith, Galston.-R.B.]

[Footnote 14: John Shepherd Muirkirk.-R.B.]

[Footnote 15: Dr. Andrew Mitchel, Monkton.-R.B.]

[Footnote 16: William Auld, Mauchline; for the clerk, see "Holy Willie"s
Prayer."-R.B.]

[Footnote 17: Vide the "Prayer" of this saint.-R.B.]

Second: A Man's a Man for A' that

Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.