LITMIR.BIZ

      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 gude 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 damnation,

      For broken laws,

      Five thousand years ‘fore my creation,

      Thro’ Adam’s cause.

      When frae my mither’s womb I fell,

      Thou might hae plunged me in hell,

      To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,

      In burnin’ lake,

      Whar 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.

      But yet, O Lord! confess I must,

      At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust;

      And sometimes, too, wi’ warldly trust,

      Vile self gets in;

      But thou remembers we are dust,

      Defil’d in sin.

      O Lord! yestreen thou kens, wi’ Meg—

      Thy pardon I sincerely beg,

      O! may’t 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 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 turn,

      ‘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 carts,

      Yet has sae mony takin’ arts,

      Wi’ grit and sma’,

      Frae God’s ain priests the people’s hearts

      He steals awa.

      An’ whan we chasten’d him therefore,

      Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,

      As set the warld in a roar

      O’ laughin’ at us;—

      Curse thou his basket and his store,

      Kail and potatoes.

      Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray’r,

      Against the presbyt’ry of Ayr;

      Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare

      Upo’ their heads,

      Lord weigh it down, and dinna spare,

      For their misdeeds.

      O Lord my God, that glib-tongu’d Aiken,

      My very heart and saul are quakin’,

      To think how we stood groanin’, shakin’,

      And swat wi’ dread,

      While Auld wi’ hingin lips gaed sneakin’

      And hung 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,

      Nor hear their pray’r;

      But for thy people’s sake destroy ‘em,

      And dinna spare.

      But, Lord, remember me an 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!

      Here Holy Willie’s sair worn clay

      Takes 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 hand 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 gi’en him o’er,

      And mercy’s day is gaen.

      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.