But comes frae 'mang that cursed set I hope frae heaven to see them yet * Dalrymple has been lang our fae, That aft hae made us black and blae, Auld Wodrow || lang has hatch'd mischief, Ane to succeed him, A chiel wha'll soundly buff our beef; And mony a ane that I could tell, There's Smith for ane, I doubt he's but a gray-nick quill, Oh! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, And get the brutes the powers themsels And guid M'Math, Wi' Smith, wha through the heart can glance, 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 Sunday, 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, For gifts and grace, A burnin' and a shinin' light What was I, or my generation, Five thousand years 'fore my creation, When frae my mither's womb I fell, Whare damned devils roar and yell, Yet I am here a chosen sample, 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, Wi' great and sma'; For I am keepit, by thy fear, Free frae them a'. But yet, O Lord! confess I must, 1 Troubled. And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, But thou remembers we are dust, Defiled in sin. O Lord! yestreen, thou kens, wi' MegThy 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- 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, 'Cause he's sae gifted; If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne Lord, bless thy chosen in this place, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace And public shame. Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, Wi' grit and sma', Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts And whan we chasten'd him therefore, As set the world in a roar O' laughin' at us ;— Curse thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes. Lord, hear my earnest cry and prayer Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds. 1 Disturbance. O Lord, my God, that glib-tongued Aiken,* To think how we stood groanin', shakin', While he, wi' hingin' lip and snakin',1 Lord, in the day of vengeance try him, Nor hear their prayer; But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, But, Lord, remember me and mine, And a' the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen! EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. HERE Holy Willie's sair worn clay Taks up Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun, Your brunstane devilship, I see, But hear me, sir, deil as ye are, Look something to your credit; A coof 2 like him wad stain your name, If it were kent ye did it. TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785. GILBERT BURNS says, "The verses to the 'Mouse' and 'Mountain Daisy were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author was holding 1 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, still (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 ! Wi' bickering brattle!1 I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which maks thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! And bleak December's winds ensuin', 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 1 Hurrying run. 3. Sometimes. 2 Pattle or pettle, the plough spade. * An ear of corn in a thrave-that is, twenty-four sheaves. |