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But comes frae 'mang that cursèd set

I winna name;
I hope frae heaven to see them yet

In fiery flame.
Dalrymple * has been lang our fae,
M'Gill F has wrought us meikle wae,
And that cursed rascal ca'd M Quhae, I

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;

I meikle dread him.
And mony 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 gray-nick quill,

And that ye'll fin'.
Oh ! a’ye flocks o'er a' the hills,
By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
Come, join your counsel and your skills,

To cowe the lairds,
Anu get the brutes the powers 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 o'er the sea 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 through the heart can glance,

May a' pack aff.

1 Halter.

* Rev. Dr. Dalrymple, one of the ministers of Ayr.
+ Rev. William M Gill, one of the ministers of Ayr.

Minister of St. Quivox. $ Dr. Andrew Shaw of Craigie, and Dr. David Shaw of Coylton. || Dr. Peter Wodrow, Torbolton.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. This is the most terrible commentary on the Calvinistic doctrine of Election ever written. The origin of the lines may be briefly told. Burns's friend, Gavin Hamilton, had been refused the ordinances of the Church, because he was be. lieved to have made a journey on the Sabbath, and because one of his servants by his orders had brought in some potatoes from the garden on another Sun. day, hence the allusion to the "kail and potatoes" in the piece.

William Fisher, one of the Rev. Mr. Auld's elders, made himself very conspicuous in the case. He was a great pretender to sanctity-and only a pretender. Afterwards he fell into drunken habits, and died in a ditch while in a helpless state of intoxication.

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 ony 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 and grace,
A burnin' and a shinin' light

To a' this place.
What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation ?
I, wha deserve sic just damination

For broken laws,
Five thousand years 'fore my creation,

Through Adam's cause.
When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plunged me into hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,

In burnin' lake,
Wnare 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 Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear,
And singing there, and dancing here,

Wi' great and sma';
For I am keepit, by thy fear,

Free frae them a'.
But yet, O Lord ! confess I must,
At times I'm fash’dwi' fleshly lust;

1 Troubled.

: :

And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust,

Vile self gets in ; But thou remembers we are dust,

Defiled in sin. O Lord ! yestreen, thou kens, wi' Mega Thy pardon I sincerely beg, Oh, may it ne'er be a livin' plague,

To my dishonour,
And I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg

Again upon her.
Besides, I farther maun avow,
Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow-
But, Lord, that Friday I was fou’

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 Beset thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turra,

'Cause he's sae gifted ; If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne

Until thou lift it.
Lord, bless thy chosen in this place,
For here thou hast a chosen race :
But God confound their stubborn face,

And blast their name,
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace

And public shame. Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes, Yet has sae mony takin' arts,

Wi' grit and sma',
Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts

He steals awa'.
And whan we chasten'd him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
As set the world in a roar

('laughin' at us ; Curse thou his basket and his store,

Kail and potatoes.
Lord, hear my earnest cry and prayer
Against the presbyt’ry of Ayr;
Thy strong right nand, Lord, mak it bare

Upo' their heads,
Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare,

For their misdeeds.

1 Disturbance.

O Lord, my God, that glib-tongued Aiken, *
My very heart and saul are quakin',
To think how we stood groanin', shakin',

And swat wi' dread,
While he, wi' hingin' lip and snakin?,?

Held up his head.
Lord, in the day of vengeance try him,
Lord, visit them wha did employ him,
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em,

Nór hear their prayer ;
But for thy people's sake destroy 'em,

And dinna spare.
But, Lord, remember me and mine,
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,

Excell'd by nane,
And a' the glory shall be thine,

Amen, Amen!

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.
HERE IIoly Willie's sair worn clay

Taks up its last abode ;
His saul has ta'en some other way,

I fear the left-hand road.
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 ye've heard my story.
Your pity I will not implore,

For pity ye hae nane !
Justice, alas ! has gien liim 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.

TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVENDER 1985. Gilbert Burns says, “The verses to the 'Mouse' and ‘Mountain Daisy' were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author was holding i Sneering.

2 Fool. William Aiken, a solicitor, a special friend of the poet's.

the plough: I could point out the particular spot where each was composed. Holding the plough was a favourite situation with Robert for poetic compositions, and some of his best verses were produced while he was at that exercise.

“ John Blane,” says Mr. Chambers, "who was farm-servant at Mossgiel at the time of its composition, geill (1838) lives at Kilmarnock. He stated to me that he recollected the incident perfectly. Burns was holding the plough, with Blane for his driver, when the little creature was observed running off across the field. Blane, having the pettle, or plough-cleaning, utensil, in his hand at the moment, was thoughtlessly running after it, to kill

it, when Burns checked him, but not angrily, asking what ill the poor mouse had ever done him. The poet then seemed to his driver to grow very thoughtful, and, during the remainder of the afternoon, he spoke not. In the night time he awoke Blane, who slept with him, and, reading the poem which had in the meantime been composed, asked what he thought of the mouse now."

WEE, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou needna start awa' sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle !
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,

Wi' murd'ring pattle !?
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion

Which maks thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

And fellow-mortal !

I doubt na, whyles,3 but thou may thieve;
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave*

'S a sma' request :
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,

And never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin !
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'!
And naething now to big a new ane

O' foggage green!
And bleak December's winds ensuin',

Baith snell 4 and keen !
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary winter comin' fast,
And cozies here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell.
Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past

Out through thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble !

1 Hurrying run. 3 Sometimes.

2 Pattle or pettle, the plough spade. 4 Sharp

3 Comfortable.

* An ear of corn in a thrave-that is, twenty-four sheaves.

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