Free A Night Out with Burns by Robert Burns Page B

borne
    Untill Thou lift it.—

    Lord bless Thy Chosen in this place,
    For here Thou has a chosen race:
    But God, confound their stubborn face,
    And blast their name,
    Wha bring Thy rulers to disgrace
    And open shame.—

    Lord mind Gaun Hamilton’s deserts!
    He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes,
    Yet has sae mony taking arts
    Wi’ Great and Sma’,
    Frae God’s ain priest the people’s hearts
    He steals awa.—

    And when we chasten’d him therefore,
    Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
    And set the warld in a roar
    O’ laughin at us:
    Curse Thou his basket and his store,
    Kail and potatoes.—
    Lord hear my earnest cry and prayer
    Against that Presbytry of Ayr!
    Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare
    Upon their heads!
    Lord visit them, and dinna spare,
    For their misdeeds!

    O Lord my God, that glib-tongu’d Aiken!
    My very heart and flesh are quaking
    To think how I sat, sweating, shaking,
    And piss’d wi’ dread,
    While Auld wi’ hingin lip gaed sneaking
    And hid his head.

    Lord, in Thy day o’ vengeance try him!
    Lord visit him that did employ him!
    And pass not in Thy mercy by them,
    Nor hear their prayer;
    But for Thy people’s sake destroy them,
    And dinna spare!

    But Lord, remember me and mine
    Wi’ mercies temporal and divine!
    That I for grace and gear may shine,
    Excell’d by nane!
    And a’ the glory shall be Thine!
    A MEN ! A MEN !

    H eresy is a model of resistance in the mind of a free man. That is perhaps why Burns admired Milton’s Satan, his ‘manly fortitude in supporting what cannot be remedied – in short, the wild broken fragments of a noble mind, exalted in ruins’. Burns was careless with the Kirk authorities, but good relations between literature and laughter must often depend on an author’s willingness to endure the penalties of public disgrace.

    The Kirk of Scotland’s Garland—A New Song
    Orthodox, Orthodox, who believe in John Knox,
    Let me sound an alarm to your conscience;
    A heretic blast has been blawn i’ the West—
    That what is not Sense must be Nonsense, Orthodox,
    That what is not Sense must be Nonsense.—

    Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, ye should streek on a rack,
    To strike Evildoers with terror;
    To join F AITH and S ENSE upon any pretence
    Was heretic, damnable error, &c.

    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, &c.

    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 ye, auld Satan maun have ye,
    For preaching that three’s ane and twa, &c.

    Calvin’s Sons, Calvin’s Sons, seize your spiritual guns—
    Ammunition ye never can need;
    Your H EARTS are the stuff will be P OWDER enough,
    And your S CULLS are a storehouse o’ L EAD , &c.
    Rumble John, Rumble John, mount the steps with a groan,
    Cry, the B OOK is with heresy cramm’d;
    Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle,
    And roar ev’ry note o’ the D AMN’D , &c.

    Simper James, Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames,
    There’s a holier chase in your view:
    I’ll lay on your head that the P ACK ye’ll soon lead,
    For P UPPIES like you there’s but few, &c.

    Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, are ye herding the P ENNIE ,
    Unconscious what danger awaits?
    With a jump, yell and howl, alarm ev’ry soul,
    For Hannibal’s just at your gates, &c.

    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, &c.

    Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, ye may slander the B OOK ,
    And the B OOK nought the waur, let me tell ye:
    Ye’re rich and look big, but lay by hat and wig—
    And