No More Learning

[This letter contained the Kirk's Alarm, a satire written to help the
cause of Dr. M'Gill, who recanted his heresy rather than be removed
from his kirk. ]

_Ellisland, 1790. _

DEAR SIR,

Whether in the way of my trade I can be of any service to the Rev.
Doctor, is I fear very doubtful. Ajax's shield consisted, I think, of
seven bull-hides and a plate of brass, which altogether set Hector's
utmost force at defiance. Alas! I am not a Hector, and the worthy
Doctor's foes are as securely armed as Ajax was. Ignorance,
superstition, bigotry, stupidity, malevolence, self-conceit, envy--all
strongly bound in a massy frame of brazen impudence. Good God, Sir! to
such a shield, humour is the peck of a sparrow, and satire the pop-gun
of a school-boy. Creation-disgracing scelerats such as they, God only
can mend, and the devil only can punish. In the comprehending way of
Caligula, I wish they all had but one neck. I feel impotent as a child
to the ardour of my wishes! O for a withering curse to blast the
germins of their wicked machinations!
O for a poisonous tornado,
winged from the torrid zone of Tartarus, to sweep the spreading crop
of their villainous contrivances to the lowest hell!

R. B.

* * * * *




CCI.


TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[The poet wrote out several copies of Tam o' Shanter and sent them to
his friends, requesting their criticisms: he wrote few poems so
universally applauded. ]

_Ellisland, November, 1790. _

"As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far
country. "

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news from you, in return for
the many tidings of sorrow which I have received. In this instance I
most cordially obey the apostle--"Rejoice with them that do
rejoice"--for me, _to sing_ for joy, is no new thing; but _to preach_
for joy, as I have done in the commencement of this epistle, is a
pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never rose before.

I read your letter--I literally jumped for joy--How could such a
mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of
the best news from his best friend. I seized my gilt-headed Wangee
rod, an instrument indispensably necessary in my left hand, in the
moment of inspiration and rapture; and stride, stride--quick and
quicker--out skipt I among the broomy banks of Nith to muse over my
joy by retail. To keep within the bounds of prose was impossible. Mrs.
Little's is a more elegant, but not a more sincere compliment to the
sweet little fellow, than I, extempore almost, poured out to him in
the following verses:--

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love
And ward o' mony a prayer,
What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, an' fair.