Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/128

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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
The Poet, some guid angel help him,Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him!He may do weel for a' he's done yet,But only—he's no begun yet.
The Patron (Sir, ye maun forgie me,I winna lie, come what will o' me),On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be,He's just—nae better than he should be.
I readily and freely grant,He downa see a poor man want;What's no his ain he winna tak it,What ance he says he winna break it;Ought he can lend he'll no refus't,Till aft his guidness is abus'd;And rascals whyles that do him wrang,E'vn that, he does na mind it lang:As master, landlord, husband, father,He does na fail his part in either.
But then, nae thanks to him for a' that;Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that;It's naething but a milder featureOf our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature:Ye'll get the best o' moral works,'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks,Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,Wha never heard of orthodoxy.That he's the poor man's friend in need,The gentleman in word and deed,It's no thro' terror of damnation;It's just a carnal inclination.
Morality, thou deadly bane,Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain!Vain is his hope, whase stay and trust isIn moral mercy, truth, and justice!
No—stretch a point to catch a plack;Abuse a brother to his back;Steal thro' a winnock frae a whore,But point the rake that taks the door:Be to the poor like onie whunstane,And haud their noses to the grunstane,Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving;No matter—stick to sound believing.
Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile graces,Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang, wry faces;Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan,And damn a' parties but your own;I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver,A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.
O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin,For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin!Ye sons of heresy and error,Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror!When vengeance draws the sword in wrath,And in the fire throws the sheath;When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him:While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans,And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones,Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!
Your pardon, Sir, for this digression,I maist forgat my Dedication;But when divinity comes cross me,My readers still are sure to lose me.
So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour,But I maturely thought it proper,When a' my works I did review,To dedicate them, Sir, to You:Because (ye need na tak it ill)I thought them something like yoursel.
Then patronize them wi' your favour,And your petitioner shall ever—I had amaist said, ever pray:But that's a word I need na say:For prayin I hae little skill o't;I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't;But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r,That kens or hears about you, Sir.—
'May ne'er misfortune's gowling barkHowl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk!May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart,For that same gen'rous spirit smart!
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