---

Robert Burns - Holy Willie`s Prayer
Work rating: Medium

"And send the godly in a pet to pray." - Pope 
 
O Thou, that in the heavens does dwell, 
Wha, as it pleases best Thysel`, 
Sends ane to heaven an` ten to hell, 
A` for Thy glory, 
And no for onie guid 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 deserv`d most just damnation 
For broken laws, 
Sax thousand years ere my creation, 
Thro` Adam`s cause. 
 
When from my mither`s womb I fell, 
Thou might hae plung`d me deep in hell, 
To gnash my gooms, and 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` sining here, an` dancin there, 
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 warldly 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. 
 
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 them, 
Nor hear them their pray`r, 
But for Thy people`s sake destroy them, 
An` dinna spare. 
 
But, Lord, remember me an` mine 
Wi` mercies temporal and divine, 
That I for grace an` gear may shine, 
Excell`d by nane, 
And a` the glory shall be thine, 
Amen, Amen!
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.