Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
57 . Holy Willies Prayer
O T
Who, as it pleases best Thysel’,
Sends ane to heaven an’ ten to hell,
A’ for Thy glory,
And no for ony gude or ill
They’ve done afore Thee!
When thousands Thou hast left in night, That I am here afore Thy sight, For gifts an’ grace A burning and a shining light To a’ this place. That I should get sic exaltation, I wha deserve most just damnation For broken laws, Five thousand years ere my creation, Thro’ Adam’s cause? Thou might hae plunged me in hell, To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, In burnin lakes, Where damned devils roar and yell, Chain’d to their stakes. To show thy grace is great and ample; I’m here a pillar o’ Thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, and example, To a’ Thy flock. When drinkers drink, an’ swearers swear, An’ singin there, an’ dancin here, Wi’ great and sma’; For I am keepit by Thy fear Free frae them a’. At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust: An’ sometimes, too, in wardly trust, Vile self gets in: But Thou remembers we are dust, Defil’d wi’ sin. Thy pardon I sincerely beg, O! may’t ne’er be a livin plague To my dishonour, An’ I’ll ne’er lift a lawless leg Again upon her. Wi’ Leezie’s lass, three times I trow— But L—d, that Friday I was fou, When I cam near her; Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true Wad never steer her. Buffet Thy servant e’en and morn, Lest he owre proud and high shou’d turn, That he’s sae gifted: If sae, Thy han’ maun e’en be borne, Until Thou lift it. For here Thou hast a chosen race: But G—d confound their stubborn face, An’ blast their name, Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace An’ public shame. He drinks, an’ swears, an’ plays at cartes, Yet has sae mony takin arts, Wi’ great and sma’, Frae G—d’s ain priest the people’s hearts He steals awa. Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, An’ set the warld in a roar O’ laughing at us;— Curse Thou his basket and his store, Kail an’ potatoes. Against that Presbyt’ry o’ Ayr; Thy strong right hand, L—d, make it bare Upo’ their heads; L—d visit them, an’ dinna spare, For their misdeeds. My vera heart and flesh are quakin, To think how we stood sweatin’, shakin, An’ p—’d wi’ dread, While he, wi’ hingin lip an’ snakin, Held up his head. L—d, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in Thy mercy by ’em, Nor hear their pray’r, But for Thy people’s sake, destroy ’em, An’ dinna spare. Wi’ mercies temp’ral an’ divine, That I for grace an’ gear may shine, Excell’d by nane, And a’ the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen!