THE CALF. TO THE REV. MR. ON HIS TEXT, MALACHI, CH, Iv. v. 2 — “ AND THEY SHALL GO FORTH, AND GROW UP, LIKE CALVES OF THE STALL." RIGHT, sir! your text I'll prove it true, Tho' heretics may laugh; For instance, there's yoursel' just now, God knows, an unco calf! And should some patron be so kind, I doubt na, sir, but then we'll find But, if the lover's raptur'd hour Tho' when some kind, connubial dear, The like has been, that you may wear A noble head of horns! And in your lug, most rev'rend James, Few men o' sense will doubt your claims And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock, Wi' justice they may mark your head "Here lies a famous Bullock!” HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. ◊ THOU, wha in the heavens dost dwell, And no for ony guid or ill They've done afore thee! I bless and praise thy matchless might, When thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here afore thy sight, For gifts an' grace, A burnin' an' a shinin' light, To a' this place. What was I, or my generation, Five thousand years 'fore my creation, When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might hae plung'd me into hell To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, Whare damned devils roar and yell, Yet I am here, a chosen sample, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an' example O Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear, When drinkers drink, and swearers swear, And singin' here, and dancin' there, Wi' great an' sma': For I am keepit by thy fear, Free frae them a'. But yet, O Lord! confess I must, But thou remembers we are dust, Besides I farther maun allow, When I came near her, Or else, thou kens, thy servant true Wad ne'er hae steer'd her. Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn Lest he owre high and proud should turn, If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, Lord, bless thy chosen in this place, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace, Lord, mind G-n H-n's deserts, Wi' grit an' sma', Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts An' whan he chasten'd him therefor, O' laughin' at us; Curse thou his basket and his store, Lord, hear my carnest cry an' pray'r, Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it b. e, Lord, weigh it down, an' dinna spare, O Lord, my God, that glib-tongu'd An, While he, wi' hinging lips and snakin', Lord, in the day of vengeance try him, But for thy people's sake, destroy 'em, But, Lord, remember me and mine An' a' the glory shall be thine. EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. HERE Holy Willie's sair-worn clay His saul has taen some other way, Stop! there he is as sure's a gun, |