Chapter XLVII: Holy Willie's Prayer

The hero of this daring exposition of Calvinistic theology was
William Fisher, a farmer in the neighbourhood of Mauchline, and an
elder in Mr. Auld's session. He had signalized himself in the
prosecution of Mr. Hamilton, elsewhere alluded to; and Burns
appears to have written these verses in retribution of the rancour
he had displayed on that occasion. Fisher was afterwards convicted
of appropriating the money collected for the poor. Coming home one
night from market in a state of intoxication, he fell into a ditch,
where he was found dead next morning. The poem was first published
in 1801, along with the "Jolly Beggars".

Oh Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best thysel',
Sends ane to heaven, an' ten to hell,
A' for thy glory,
An' no for ony guid or ill
They've done afore thee!

I bless an' praise thy matchless might,
Whan thousands thou hast left in night,
That I am here afore thy sight,
For gifts an' grace
A burnin' and a shinin' light
To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation,
I wha deserve sic just damnation,
For broken laws,
Five thousand years 'fore my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause?

When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might ha'e plunged me deep in hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep an' wail,
In burnin' lake,
Whare damned devils roar an' yell,
Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here, a chosen sample;
To show thy grace is great an' ample;
I'm here a pillar in thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, an example,
To a' thy flock.

But yet, oh Lord! confess I must,
At times I'm fash'd[223] wi' fleshly lust;
An' sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust,
Vile self gets in:
But Thou remembers we are dust,
Defil'd in sin.

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn
Beset thy servant e'en an' morn
Lest he owre high an' proud should turn,
'Cause he's sae gifted;
If sae, Thy ban' maun e'en be borne,
Until Thou lift it.

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place,
For here Thou hast a chosen race:
But God confound their stubborn face,
And blast their name,
Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
And public shame.

Lord, mind Cawn Hamilton's deserts,
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes[224],
Yet has sae mony takin' arts,
Wi' grit an' sma'[225],
Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts
He steals awa'.

And whan we chasten'd him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore[226],
As set the warld in a roar
O' laughin' at us,--
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail and potatoes.

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r
Against the Presbyt'ry of Ayr;
Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak' it bare
Upo' their heads,
Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.

Oh Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken,
My very heart and saul are quakin',
To think how we stood groanin', shakin',
And swat wi' dread,
While he wi' hingin' lips and snakin',
Held up his head.

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him,
Lord, 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, Lord, remember me and mine,
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,
That I for gear[227] and grace may shine,
Excell'd by nane,
And a' the glory shall be thine,
Amen, amen!

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.

Here Holy Willie's sair-worn clay
Tak's up its last abode;
His saul has ta'en some ither 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[228] devilship, I see,
Has got him there before ye;
But haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance you'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[229] like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it.

[Footnote 223: troubled.]

[Footnote 224: cards.]

[Footnote 225: great and small.]

[Footnote 226: row.]

[Footnote 227: wealth.]

[Footnote 228: brimstone.]

[Footnote 229: fool.]

CHARLES LAMB.

(1775-1835.)