Robert Burns

To the Rev. John M’Math

Inclosing A Copy Of Holy Willie's Prayer, 
Which He Had Requested

WHILE at the stook the shearers cow’r
To shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r,
Or in gulravage rinnin’ scour;
    To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the hour
    In idle rhyme.

My Musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnet
On gown, an’ ban’, an’ douce black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she’s done it,
    Lest they shou’d blame her,
An’ rouse their holy thunder on it,
    And anathem her.

I own ‘twas rash, an’ rather hardy,
That I, a simple country bardie,
Shou’d meddle wi’ a pack so sturdy,
    Wha, if they ken me,
Can easy, wi’ a single wordie,
    Lowse hell upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces,
Their sighin’, cantin’, grace-proud faces,
Their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces,
    Their raxin’ conscience,
Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces
    Waur nor their nonsense.

There’s Gawn, misca’t waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast
Than mony scores as guid’s the priest
    Wha sae abus’d him:
An’ may a bard no crack his jest
    What way they’ve used him?

See him the poor man’s friend in need,
The gentleman in word an’ deed,
An’ shall his fame an’ honour bleed
    By worthless skellums,
An’ not a Muse erect her head
    To cowe the blellums?

O Pope, had I thy satire’s darts
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
    An’ tell aloud
Their jugglin’ hocus-pocus arts
    To cheat the crowd.

God knows I’m no the thing I shou’d be,
Nor am I even the thing I could be,
But, twenty times, I rather would be
    An atheist clean,
Than under gospel colours hid be,
    Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass,
But mean revenge, an’ malice fause,
    He’ll still disdain,
An’ then cry zeal for gospel laws,
    Like some we ken.

They tak religion in their mouth;
They talk o’ mercy, grace, an’ truth,
For what? to gie their malice skouth
    On some puir wight,
An’ hunt him down, o’er right an’ ruth,
    To ruin straight.

All hail, Religion, maid divine!
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line
    Thus daurs to name thee;
To stigmatize false friends of thine
    Can ne’er defame thee.

Tho’ blotcht an’ foul wi’ mony a stain,
An’ far unworthy of thy train,
Wi’ trembling voice I tune my strain
    To join wi’ those,
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain
    In spite o’ foes:

In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mobs,
In spite of undermining jobs,
In spite o’ dark banditti stabs
    At worth an’ merit,
By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes,
    But hellish spirit.

O Ayr, my dear, my native ground!
Within thy presbyterial bound,
A candid lib’ral band is found
    Of public teachers,
As men, as Christians too, renown’d,
    An’ manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam’d,
Sir, in that circle you are fam’d;
An’ some, by whom your doctrine’s blam’d,
    (Which gies you honour)-
Even, sir, by them your heart’s esteem’d,
    An’ winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta’en,
An’ if impertinent I’ve been,
Impute it not, good air, in ane
    Whase heart ne’er wrang’d ye,
But to his utmost would befriend
    Ought that belang’d ye.