Holy Willie was a rather oldish bachelor elder, in the parish of Mauchline, and much and justly famed for that polemical chattering, which ends in tippling orthodoxy, and for that spiritualized bawdry which refines to liquorish devotion.  In a sessional process with a gentleman in Mauchline—­a Mr. Gavin Hamilton—­Holy Willie and his priest, Father Auld, after full hearing in the presbytery of Ayr, came off but second best; owing partly to the oratorical powers of Mr. Robert Aiken, Mr. Hamilton’s counsel; but chiefly to Mr. Hamilton’s being one of the most irreproachable and truly respectable characters in the county.  On losing the process, the muse overheard him [Holy Willie] at his devotions, as follows:—­

     O Thou, who in the heavens does dwell,
     Who, as it pleases best Thysel’,
     Sends ane to heaven an’ ten to hell,
     A’ for Thy glory,
     And no for ony gude or ill
     They’ve done afore Thee!

     I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
     When thousands Thou hast left in night,
     That I am here afore Thy sight,
     For gifts an’ grace
     A burning and a shining light
     To a’ this place.

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

     When frae my mither’s womb I fell,
     Thou might hae plunged me in hell,
     To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
     In burnin lakes,
     Where damned devils roar and yell,
     Chain’d to their stakes.

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

     O Lord, Thou kens what zeal I bear,
     When drinkers drink, an’ swearers swear,
     An’ singin there, an’ dancin here,
     Wi’ great and sma’;
     For I am keepit by Thy fear
     Free frae them a’.

     But yet, O Lord! confess I must,
     At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust: 
     An’ sometimes, too, in wardly trust,
     Vile self gets in: 
     But Thou remembers we are dust,
     Defil’d wi’ sin.

     O Lord! yestreen, Thou kens, wi’ Meg—­
     Thy pardon I sincerely beg,
     O! may’t ne’er be a livin plague
     To my dishonour,
     An’ I’ll ne’er lift a lawless leg
     Again upon her.

     Besides, I farther maun allow,
     Wi’ Leezie’s lass, three times I trow—­
     But Lord, that Friday I was fou,
     When I cam near her;
     Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true
     Wad never steer her.

     Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn
     Buffet Thy servant e’en and morn,
     Lest he owre proud and high shou’d turn,
     That he’s sae gifted: 
     If sae, Thy han’ maun e’en be borne,
     Until Thou lift it.