Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/189

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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
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Who in her rough imperfect lineThus daurs to name thee;To stigmatize false friends of thineCan ne'er defame thee.
Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' monie a stain,An' far unworthy of thy train,Wi' trembling voice I tune my strainTo join wi' those,Who boldly daur thy cause maintainIn spite o' foes:
In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,In spite of undermining jobs,In spite o' dark banditti stabsAt worth an' merit,By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,But hellish spirit.
O Ayr! my dear, my native ground!Within thy presbytereal bound,A candid lib'ral band is foundOf 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 aneWhase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,But to his utmost would befriendOught that belang'd ye.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.

O Thou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell,Wha, as it pleases best thysel',Sends ane to Heaven and ten to Hell, A' for thy glory,And no for onie guid or illThey've done afore thee!
I bless and praise thy matchless might,Whan thousands thou hast left in night,That I am here afore thy sight,For gifts an' grace,A burning an' a shinin light,To a' this place.
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