The Kirk Of Scotlands Alarm
munition you never eed;
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.