Jock and Rumble John, minister of the High He smelt their ilka hole and road, Church at Kilmarnock.] Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor, Он, a' ye pious, godly flocks, The twa best herds in a' the wast, Ha'e had a bitter, black out-cast O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, How could you raise so vile a bustle, Ye'll see how New Light herds will whistle, And think it fine: The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle O, sirs! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit, But by the brutes themselves eleckit, What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank, Sae hale and hearty every shank? Nae poisoned sour Arminian stank, He let them taste. Baith out and in, And weel he liked to shed their bluid, And sell their skin. What herd like Russell telled his tale? His voice was heard through muir and dale, He kenned the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, Sic twa-O, do I live to see 't!— Sic famous twa should disagreet, While New-Light herds, wi' laughin spite, Say neither 's liein'! A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, Till they agree. Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they Consider, sirs, how we're beset; drank, O' sic a feast! The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, There's scarce a new herd that we get Weel kenned his voice through a' the I hope frae heaven to see them yet wood, In fiery flame. Dalrymple has been lang our fae, M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae, And that cursed rascal ca'd M'Quhae, And baith the Shaws, That aft ha'e made us black and blae Wi' vengefu' paws. Auld Wodrow lang has hatched mischief; We thought aye death wad bring relief, But he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him, A chiel wha 'll soundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him. And mony a ane that I could tell, There's Smith for ane; O! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, Be banished o'er the sea to France: Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, Wi' Smith, wha through the heart can glance, May a' pack aff. HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. [The unhappy Praise-God Barebones who is held up to everlasting scorn in this withering satire was one William Fisher, an elder of the parish church at Mauchline. Alluding to this production in his autobiography, the poet, who has just before been referring to the "Twa Herds," says of it,-"Holy Willie's Prayer' next made its appearance, and alarmed the kirksession so much, that they held several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, [and see] if haply any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers." During the lifetime of Burns the piece was handed about merely in manuscript, being issued from the press in the penultimate year of the last century, when it appeared in 1799 for the first time in the little twopenny tracts printed by Stewart and Meikle. A couple of years had scarcely elapsed when, in 1801, the epitaph also made its posthumous appearance. Sir Walter Scott pronounces "Holy Willie's Prayer a more exquisitely severe satire than any Burns afterwards penned. According to Allan Cunningham, this miserable Pharisee, Fisher of Mauchline, in the end came by his death in a manner anything but godly, drinking one evening more than was advisable, and being found the next morning dead in a ditch by the road-side.] O THOU, wha in the heav'ns dost dwell, And no for ony guid or ill They've done afore thee! I bless and praise thy matchless might, A burnin' an' a shinin' light To a' this place. What was I, or my generation, L-d, in the day of vengeance try him! But, L-d, remember me and mine An' a' the glory shall be thine, EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. HERE Holy Willie's sair-worn clay Tak's up its last abode; His saul has ta'en some other way,I fear the left-hand road. Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,— Poor silly body, see him! Nae wonder he's as black 's the grun,Observe wha's standing wi' him! Your brunstane devilship, I see, Has got him there before ye; But haud your nine-tail cat a wee, Till ance ye 've heard my story. Your pity I will not implore, For pity ye ha'e nane; Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er, And mercy's day is gane. But hear me, sir, de'il as ye are, Look something to your credit; A coof like him wad stain your name, If it were kenned ye did it. THE HOLY FAIR. [Written in that wonderful springtime of 1786, during which Burns poured forth his effusions with such astonishing fecundity, producing, as he did within that brief interval, not only many a lilting love-song that has since gone the round of the world, but, in addition to this panoramic blending of poetry and satire, his two peerless masterpieces of "Halloween" and "The Cotter's Saturday Night." It has been pointed out, with some show of reason, that Burns, who had just before procured through his friend John Richmond a copy of the poems of Fergusson, was evidently indebted to the latter for his idea of Fun introducing him to the Holy Fair, the Edinburgh poet having been himself conducted to the Leith races by a personification of Mirth A sweet, braw, buskit, bonnie lass, That lap like Hebe o'er the grass. The scene here described is that yearly celebration of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper, which, in the rural districts of Scotland, is only too literally a sort of typical Vanity Fair in which are intermingled chaffering, prayer, and amusement.] "A robe of seeming truth and trust Hid crafty Observation; And secret hung, with poisoned crust, A mask that like the gorget showed, Hypocrisy à la Mode UPON a simmer Sunday morn, I walked forth to view the corn, Wi' glorious light was glintin'; Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, For roads were clad, frae side to side Here farmers gash, in ridin' graich, In silks an' scarlets glitter; Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang, An' farls baked wi' butter, Fu' crump that day. When by the plate we set our nose, On every side they're gatherin', Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stocls, An' some are busy blethrin', Right loud that day. Here stands a shed to fend the showers, Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades, Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, Here some are thinkin' on their sins, Anither sighs an' prays: On this hand sits a chosen swatch, To chairs that day. |