The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
 | I. |
|
|
|
|
|
| 2. |
|
HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| III. |
| IV. |
|
|
|
 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER
And send the godly in a pet to pray.
POPE.
POPE.
I
O Thou that in the Heavens does dwell,Wha, as it pleases best Thysel,
Sends ane to Heaven an' ten to Hell
A' for Thy glory,
And no for onie guid or ill
They've done before Thee!
26
II
I bless and praise Thy matchless might,When thousands Thou hast left in night,
That I am here before Thy sight,
For gifts an' grace
A burning and a shining light
To a' this place.
III
What was I, or my generation,That I should get sic exaltation?
I, wha deserv'd most just damnation
For broken laws
Sax thousand years ere my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause!
IV
When from my mither's womb I fell,Thou might hae plung'd me deep in hell
To gnash my gooms, and weep, and wail
In burning lakes,
Whare damnèd devils roar and yell,
Chain'd to their stakes.
V
Yet I am here, a chosen sample,To show Thy grace is great and ample:
27
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, and example
To a' Thy flock!
VI
But yet, O Lord! confess I must:At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust;
An' sometimes, too, in warldly trust,
Vile self gets in;
But Thou remembers we are dust,
Defiled wi' sin.
VII
O Lord! yestreen, Thou kens, wi' Meg—Thy pardon I sincerely beg—
O, may't ne'er be a living plague
To my dishonour!
An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.
VIII
Besides, I farther maun avow—Wi' Leezie's lass, three times, I trow—
But, Lord, that Friday I was fou,
When I cam near her,
Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true
Wad never steer her.
28
IX
Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thornBuffet Thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre proud and high should turn
That he's sae gifted:
If sae, Thy han' maun e'en be borne
Until Thou lift it.
X
Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place,For here Thou has a chosen race!
But God confound their stubborn face
An' blast their name,
Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
An' open shame!
XI
Lord, mind Gau'n Hamilton's deserts:He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes,
Yet has sae monie takin arts
Wi' great and sma',
Frae God's ain Priest the people's hearts
He steals awa.
XII
And when we chasten'd him therefore,Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
29
O' laughin at us:
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail an' potatoes!
XIII
Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'rAgainst that Presbyt'ry of Ayr!
Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare
Upo' their heads!
Lord, visit them, an' dinna spare,
For their misdeeds!
XIV
O Lord, my God! that glib-tongu'd Aiken,My vera heart and flesh are quakin
To think how we stood sweatin, shakin,
An' pish'd wi' dread,
While he, wi' hingin lip an' snakin,
Held up his head.
XV
Lord, in Thy day o' vengeance try him!Lord, visit him wha did employ him!
And pass not in Thy mercy by them,
Nor hear their pray'r,
But for Thy people's sake destroy them,
An' dinna spare!
30
XVI
But, Lord, remember me and mineWi' mercies temporal and divine,
That I for grace an' gear may shine
Excell'd by nane;
And a' the glory shall be Thine—
Amen, Amen!
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |