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

     Lord, mind Gaw’n Hamilton’s deserts;
     He drinks, an’ swears, an’ plays at cartes,
     Yet has sae mony takin arts,
     Wi’ great and sma’,
     Frae God’s ain priest the people’s hearts
     He steals awa.

     An’ when we chasten’d him therefor,
     Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
     An’ set the warld in a roar
     O’ laughing at us;—­
     Curse Thou his basket and his store,
     Kail an’ potatoes.

     Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray’r,
     Against that Presbyt’ry o’ Ayr;
     Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare
     Upo’ their heads;
     Lord visit them, an’ dinna spare,
     For their misdeeds.

     O Lord, my God! that glib-tongu’d Aiken,
     My vera heart and flesh are quakin,
     To think how we stood sweatin’, shakin,
     An’ p-’d wi’ dread,
     While he, wi’ hingin lip an’ snakin,
     Held up his head.

     Lord, in Thy day o’ 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,
     An’ dinna spare.

     But, Lord, remember me an’ mine
     Wi’ mercies temp’ral an’ divine,
     That I for grace an’ gear 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
     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 you’ve heard my story.

     Your pity I will not implore,
     For pity ye have 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.

Death and Doctor Hornbook

     A True Story

     Some books are lies frae end to end,
     And some great lies were never penn’d: 
     Ev’n ministers they hae been kenn’d,
     In holy rapture,
     A rousing whid at times to vend,
     And nail’t wi’ Scripture.

     But this that I am gaun to tell,
     Which lately on a night befell,
     Is just as true’s the Deil’s in hell
     Or Dublin city: 
     That e’er he nearer comes oursel’
     ’S a muckle pity.