Dalrymple has been lang our fae,
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae,
And that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae,
And baith the Shaws,

That aft hae made us black and blae,
Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief, We thought aye death wad bring relief, But he has gotten, to our grief,

Ane to succeed him,

A chiel wha'll soundly buff our beef;1
I meikle dread him.

And monie a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel,
Forbye turn-coats amang oursel,

There's Smith for ane,

I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill,

And that ye'll fin'.

2

O! a' ye flocks, owre a' the hills,
By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
Come join your counsels and your skills,
To cowe the lairds,

And get the brutes the power themsels
To choose their herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
And Learning in a woody dance,
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,

Be banish'd owre the seas to France;
Let him bark there.

Then Shaw's and D'rymple's eloquence,
M'Gill's close nervous excellence,
M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense,

And guid M Math,

Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,

May a' pack aff.

Give us a severe beating.

2 Unfit for a pen.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.1

O THOU, wha in the Heavens dost dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best thysel',

Sends ane to Heaven, and ten to Hell,
A' for thy glory,

And no for onie guid or ill

They've done afore thee

I bless and praise thy matchless might,
Whan thousands thou hast left in night,
That I am here afore thy sight,

For gifts an' grace,

A burning an' a shining light,
To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get such exaltation?
I, wha deserve such just damnation,

Five thousand

For broken laws,

years 'fore my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plung'd me into Hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin' lake,

Where damned Devils roar and yell,
Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample,
To show thy grace is great and ample;
I'm here a pillar in thy temple,

Strong as a rock,

A guide, a buckler, an example

To a' thy flock.

O L-d, thou kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear,

1 Sir Walter Scott regarded Holy Willie's Prayer as "a piece of satire more exquisitely severe than any which Burns afterwards wrote." The Poet assures us that it alarmed "the Kirk-Session so much, that they had several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery." The hero of the poem was a farmer, William Fisher, near Mauchline, said to be very pharisaic and hypocritical; one of that class of professors whom Sterne described as making every stride look like a check on their desires, Fisher was an elder in the kirk, and had offended Burns by his persecution of Mr. Hamilton, who thoughtlessly set a beggar to work in his garden on a Sunday morning, and was excommunicated in consequence.

And singin there, and dancing here,

Wi' great an' sma' :

For I am keepit by thy fear,

But

Free frae them a'.

yet, O L-d! confess I must,
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust,
An' sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust,-
Vile self gets in;

But thou remembers we are dust,
Defil'd in sin.

OL-d! yestreen, thou kens, wi' MegThy pardon I sincerely beg,

O! may it ne'er be a livin' plague

To my dishonour,

An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg

Again upon her.

Besides I farther maun allow,
Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow;
But, L-d, that Friday I was fou,

When I came near her,

Or else thou kens thy servant true

Wad ne'er hae steer'd her.

May be thou lets this fleshly thorn
Beset thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre high and proud should turn,
'Cause he's sae gifted;

If sae, thy hand maun e'en be borne,
Until thou lift it.

L-d, bless thy chosen in this place,
For here thou hast a chosen race;
But G-d confound their stubborn face,
And blast their name,

Wha bring thy elders to disgrace,
An' public shame.

L-d, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes, Yet has sae monie takin arts,

Wi' great an' sma',

Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa'.

G G

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,1
As set the warld in a roar

O' laughin' at us;

Curse thou his basket and his store,
Kail and potatoes.

L-d, hear my earnest cry an' pray'r,
Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr;

Thy strong right hand, L-d, make it bare,
Upo' their heads;

L-d, weigh it down, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.

O L-d my G-d, that glib-tongu'd Aiken,
My very heart and saul are quakin,
To think how we stood sweatin, shakin,
An' swat wi' dread,

While he wi' hingin lips gaed snakin,
And hid his head.

L-d, in the day of vengeance try him:
L-d, visit them wha did employ him,
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em,

Nor hear their pray'r :

But, for thy people's sake, destroy 'em,
And dinna spare.

But, L-d, remember me and mine
Wi' mercies tempʼral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excell'd by nane,

An' a' the glory shall be thine,

Amen, Amen.?

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.

HERE Holy Willie's sair worn clay
Taks up its last abode;

His saul has taen some other way,
I fear the left-hand road.

1 Riot.

2 Against some passages it has been objected that they breathe a spirit of irreligion. But if we consider the ignorance and fanaticism of the lower class of people when these poems were written, a fanaticism of that pernicious sort which sets faith in opposition to good works, the fallacy and danger of which, a mind so enlightened as our poet's could not but perceive, we shall not look upon his lighter Muse as the enemy of religion, though she has sometimes been a little unguarded in her ridicule of hypocrisy.-H. Mackenzie.(The "Lounger," No. 97.)

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,
Poor silly body, see him;

Nae wonder he's as black's the grun,
Observe wha's standing wi' him.

Your brunstane devilship, I see,
Has got him there before ye;
But haud your nine-tail cat a-wee,
Till ance you've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye hae nane;
Justice, alas! has gien him o'er,
And mercy's day is gane.

But hear me, Sir, deil as ye are,
Look something to your credit;
A coof like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it.

ON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL IN LOCH-TURIT, A
WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRE.

WHY, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties ?-
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.

Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace;
Man, your proud, usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below;
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tvrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey

below,

In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong Necessity compels.