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^3is still deaf to the Church’s relief,
And Orator Bob^4is 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 winnasave you, auld Satan must have you,
For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa,
D’rymple mild!^5For preaching that three’s anean’ 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!^6And 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!^7For 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.
SingetSawnie!^8For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Poet Willie! poet Willie, giethe 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 sh-t.
Poet Willie!^9Ye but smelt man, the place where he sh-t.

Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye?
If ye meddle nae mairwi’ the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence to havinsand sense,
Wi’ people that ken ye nae better,
Barr Steenie!^10Wi’people that kenye nae better.

Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose, ye made but toomroose,
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!^11He has cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrangpin in’t.

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

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

Irvine Side! Irvine Side, wi’your turkey-cock pride
Of manhood butsma’ 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!^13And 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 nomortal so fit
To confound the poor Doctor at ance,
Muirland Jock!^14To 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 byhat an’ wig,
An’ye’ll hae a calf’s-had o’ sma’value,
Andro Gowk!^15Ye’ll haea calf’s head o’ sma value.

Daddy Auld! daddy Auld, there’a a tod in the fauld,
A todmeiklewaur 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!^16Gifye cannabite, ye may bark.

Holy Will! holy Will, there was wit in your skull,
When ye pilfer’d the alms o’ the poor;
The timmeris scant when ye’re taenfor a saunt,
Whashould swing in a rape for an hour,
Holy Will!^17Ye should swing in a rapefor 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 auldnative shire?
Your muse is a gipsy, yet were she e’entipsy,
She could ca’us nae waur than we are,
Poet Burns! She could ca’us naewaurthan we are.