And the book nane the waur,' let me tell ye!
Ye are rich, and look big,

But lay by hat and wig,

And ye 'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value.

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie,
What mean ye? what mean ye?
If ye 'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence

To havins and sense,

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

4

Irvine Side, Irvine Side,

Wi' your turkey-cock pride,
Of manhood but sma' is your share:
Ye've the figure, 'tis true,

E'en your foes will allow,

And your friends, they dare grant you nae mair.
Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock,
When the Lord makes a rock
To crush Common Sense for her sins,
If ill manners were wit,

There's no mortal so fit

To confound the poor doctor at once.

Holy Will, Holy Will,

There was wit i' your skull,

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor;
The timmer" is scant

When ye're taen for a saunt,
Wha should swing in a rapes for an hour.
Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons,
Seize your spiritual guns,
Ammunition you never can need;
Your hearts are the stuff,
Will be pouther enough,

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns,

Wi' your priest-skelping turns,

1 None the worse.-2 S....n Y....g of B....r.- Good manners-4 Mr. 8...h of G....n.-5 Mr. S....d.-6 An Elder in M....e.-7 Timber.Rope.- Powder.

Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Your Muse is a gypsie,

E'en though she were tipsie,

She could ca' us nae waur1 than we are.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER."

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 onie 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 an' grace,

A burnin' an' a shinin' light,

To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get such exaltation?
I, wha deserve such just damnation,
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,

Where damnéd devils roar and yell,
Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample,
To show thy grace is great and ample;

1 Worse.

2 "Holy Willie's Prayer is a piece of satire more exquisitely severe that any which Burns ever afterwards wrote; but, unfortunately, cast in a form most daringly profane."-Sir Walter Scott, Quarterly Review, vol. i. p. 22

O Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear,
And singin' there and dancin' 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'd wi' fleshly lust,
An' sometimes too, wi' warldly trust,
Vile self gets in;

But thou remembers we are dust,

Defiled in sin.

O Lord! yestreen, thou kens, wi' Meg— Thy pardon I sincerely beg,

Oh! may 't ne'er be a livin' plague

To my dishonor,

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 hand 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,

An' public shame.

Lord, mind Gavin Hamilton's deserts,
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes,
Yet has sae monie takin' arts,

Wi' grit an' sma',

Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts
He steals awa'.

An' whan we chasten'd him therefor,
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, here my earnest cry an' prayer,
Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr;

Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare.
Upo' their heads;

Lord weigh it down, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.

O Lord my God, that glib-tongued' Aiken,
My very heart and saul are quakin',
To think how we stood sweatin', shakin',
An' p-d wi' dread,

While he, wi' hingin' lips an' 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,

Nor hear their prayer;
But, for thy people's sake, destroy 'em,
And dinna spare.

But, Lord, remember me and mine,
Wi' mercies temporal and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excell'd by nane,

An' a' the glory shall be thine,

Amen, Amen.

1 Having readiness of speech.

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.
HERE Holy Willie's sair worn clay,
Taks up its last abode;

His saul has taen 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 you've heard my story.
Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye have nane;
Justice, alas! has gien him 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.

THE CALF.

TO THE REVEREND MR.

On his text, Malachi iv. 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,
As bless you wi' a kirk,

I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find
Ye're still as great a stirk!'

1 A very calf.-2 A yearling bullock.