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　　Epistle To The Rev. John M'math

　　Sept. 13, 1785.

　　Inclosing A Copy Of “Holy Willie's Prayer,”

　　Which He Had Requested, Sept. 17, 1785

　　While at the stook the shearers cow'r

　　To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,

　　Or in gulravage rinnin scowr

　　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' douse black bonnet,

　　Is grown right eerie now she's done it,

　　Lest they should blame her,

　　An' rouse their holy thunder on it

　　An anathem her.

　　I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,

　　That I, a simple, country bardie,

　　Should meddle wi' a pack sae 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, an' half-mile graces,

　　Their raxin conscience,

　　Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces

　　Waur nor their nonsense.

　　There's Gaw'n, misca'd waur than a beast,

　　Wha has mair honour in his breast

　　Than mony scores as guid's the priest

　　Wha sae abus'd him:

　　And may a bard no crack his jest

　　What way they've us'd 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 should 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 take 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, owre right and 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 stigmatise false friends of thine

　　Can ne'er defame thee.

　　Tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain,

　　An' far unworthy of thy train,

　　With trembling voice I tune my strain,

　　To join with those

　　Who boldly dare thy cause maintain

　　In spite of foes:

　　In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,

　　In spite o' 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 liberal 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 Sir, in ane

　　Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,

　　But to his utmost would befriend

　　Ought that belang'd ye. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns