Who made the heart, ’tis He alone
    Decidedly can try us,
  He knows each chord—­its various tone,
    Each spring—­its various bias: 
  Then at the balance let’s be mute,
    We never can adjust it;
  What’s done we partly may compute,
    But know not what’s resisted.

[Footnote 216:  well-going.]

[Footnote 217:  hopper.]

[Footnote 218:  idle.]

[Footnote 219:  unlucky.]

[Footnote 220:  exchange.]

[Footnote 221:  ear.]

[Footnote 222:  perhaps.]

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.