May be thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, Until thou lift it. L--d, bless thy chosen in this place, For here thou hast a chosen race: But G-d confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace And public shame. L--d, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes, Yet has sae mony takin' arts, Wi' great and sma', Frae Gr-d's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa'. An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us;-- Curse thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes. L--d, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; Thy strong right hand, L--d, mak' it bare Upo' their heads, L--d, weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds. O L--d my G-d, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My very heart and saul are quakin' To think how we stood groanin', shakin', And swat wi' dread, While Auld wi' hinging lip gaed snakin', And hid his head. L--d in the day of vengeance try him, 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, And dinna spare. But, L--d, remember me and mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for gear and grace may shine, Excell'd by nane, An' a' the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen! EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay Taks 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 hae nane! Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er And mercy's day is gane. But hear me, sir, deil as ye are, Look something to your credit; A coof like him wad stain your name, If it were kent ye did it. ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. ROBERT BURNS. "O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, That led th' embattled Seraphim to war!"-- MILTON. O Thou! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie, Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches!