THE POEMS OF BURNS.
135
Who in her rough imperfect line
Thus daurs to name thee;
To stigmatize false friends of thine
Can ne'er defame thee.
Thus daurs to name thee;
To stigmatize false friends of thine
Can 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 strain
To join wi' those,
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain
In spite o' foes:
An' far unworthy of thy train,
Wi' trembling voice I tune my strain
To join wi' those,
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain
In spite o' foes:
In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,
In spite of undermining jobs,
In spite o' dark banditti stabs
At worth an' merit,
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,
But hellish spirit.
In spite of undermining jobs,
In spite o' dark banditti stabs
At 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 found
Of public teachers,
As men, as christians too, renown'd,
An' manly preachers.
Within thy presbytereal bound,
A candid lib'ral band is found
Of 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.
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 ane
Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,
But to his utmost would befriend
Ought that belang'd ye.
An' if impertinent I've been,
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane
Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,
But to his utmost would befriend
Ought 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 ill
They've done afore thee!
Wha, as it pleases best thysel',
Sends ane to Heaven and ten to Hell,
A' for thy glory,
And no for onie guid or ill
They'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.
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.
