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　　Adam Armour's Prayer

　　Gude pity me, because I'm little!

　　For though I am an elf o' mettle,

　　An' can, like ony wabster's shuttle,

　　Jink there or here,

　　Yet, scarce as lang's a gude kail-whittle,

　　I'm unco queer.

　　An' now Thou kens our waefu' case;

　　For Geordie's jurr we're in disgrace,

　　Because we stang'd her through the place,

　　An' hurt her spleuchan;

　　For whilk we daurna show our face

　　Within the clachan.

　　An' now we're dern'd in dens and hollows,

　　And hunted, as was William Wallace,

　　Wi' constables-thae blackguard fallows,

　　An' sodgers baith;

　　But Gude preserve us frae the gallows,

　　That shamefu' death!

　　Auld grim black-bearded Geordie's sel'—

　　O shake him owre the mouth o' hell!

　　There let him hing, an' roar, an' yell

　　Wi' hideous din,

　　And if he offers to rebel,

　　Then heave him in.

　　When Death comes in wi' glimmerin blink,

　　An' tips auld drucken Nanse the wink,

　　May Sautan gie her doup a clink

　　Within his yett,

　　An' fill her up wi' brimstone drink,

　　Red-reekin het.

　　Though Jock an' hav'rel Jean are merry—

　　Some devil seize them in a hurry,

　　An' waft them in th' infernal wherry

　　Straught through the lake,

　　An' gie their hides a noble curry

　　Wi' oil of aik!

　　As for the jurr-puir worthless body!

　　She's got mischief enough already;

　　Wi' stanged hips, and buttocks bluidy

　　She's suffer'd sair;

　　But, may she wintle in a woody,

　　If she wh-e mair! Poems and Songs of Robert Burns