Epistle T The Rev. Jhn Math
epistle to the rev. john m'math
sept. 13, 1785.
inclosing a copy of “holy willie's prayer,”
which he had requested, sept. 17, 1785
while at the stook the shearers cow'r
to shuter blaudin' show'r,
or in gulravage rinnin scowr
to pass the time,
to you i dedicate the hour
in idle rhyme.
my musie, tir'd wi' mony a so
on gown, an' ban', an' douse black bo,
is grht eerie now she's do,
lest they should blame her,
an' rouse their holy thunder on it
an anathem her.
i own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,
that i, a simple, try bardie,
should meddle ack sae sturdy,
wha, if they ken me,
easy, wi' a single wordie,
lowse hell upon me.
but i gae mad at their grimaces,
their sighin, tin, grace-proud faces,
their three-mile prayers, an' half-mile graces,
their raxin sce,
whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces
waur nor their nonsense.
there's gaw'n, misca'd waur than a beast,
wha has mair honour in his breast
than mony scores as guid's the priest
wha sae abus'd him:
and may a bard no crack his jest
what way they've us'd him?
see him, the poor man's friend in need,
the gentleman in word an' deed—
an' shall his fame an' honour bleed
by worthless, skellums,
an' not a muse erect her head
to cowe the blellums?
o pope, had i thy satire's darts
to gie the rascals their deserts,
i'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
an' tell aloud
their jugglin hocus-pocus arts
to cheat the crowd.
god knows, i'm no the thing i should be,
nor am i evehing i could be,
but twenty times i rather would be
an atheist ,
than under gospel colours hid be
just for a s.
an ho man may like a glass,
an ho man may like a lass,
but mean revenge, an' malice fause
he'll still disdain,
an' then cry zeal fospel laws,
like some we ken.
they take religion in their mouth;
they talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,
for what?—to gie their malice skouth
on some puir wight,
an' hunt him down, owre right and ruth,
to ruin straight.
all hail, religion! maid divine!
pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
who in her rough imperfect line
thus daurs to hee;
to stigmatise false friends of thine
e'er defame thee.
tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain,
an' far unworthy of thy train,
with trembling voice i tune my strain,
to join with those
who boldly dare thy cause maintain
in spite of foes:
in spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,
in spite o' undermining jobs,
in spite o' dark banditti stabs
at worth a,
by sdrels, even wi' holy robes,
but hellish spirit.
o ayr! my dear, my native ground,
within thy presbyterial bound
a did liberal band is found
of public teachers,
as men, as christians too, renown'd,
an' manly preachers.
sir, in that circle you are nam'd;
sir, in that circle you are fam'd;
an' some, by whom your doe's blam'd
(which gies you honour)
even, sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,
an' winning manner.
pardon this freedom i have ta'en,
an' if imperti i've been,
impute it not, good sir, in ane
whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,
but to his utmost would befriend
ought that belang'd ye.
sept. 13, 1785.
inclosing a copy of “holy willie's prayer,”
which he had requested, sept. 17, 1785
while at the stook the shearers cow'r
to shuter blaudin' show'r,
or in gulravage rinnin scowr
to pass the time,
to you i dedicate the hour
in idle rhyme.
my musie, tir'd wi' mony a so
on gown, an' ban', an' douse black bo,
is grht eerie now she's do,
lest they should blame her,
an' rouse their holy thunder on it
an anathem her.
i own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,
that i, a simple, try bardie,
should meddle ack sae sturdy,
wha, if they ken me,
easy, wi' a single wordie,
lowse hell upon me.
but i gae mad at their grimaces,
their sighin, tin, grace-proud faces,
their three-mile prayers, an' half-mile graces,
their raxin sce,
whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces
waur nor their nonsense.
there's gaw'n, misca'd waur than a beast,
wha has mair honour in his breast
than mony scores as guid's the priest
wha sae abus'd him:
and may a bard no crack his jest
what way they've us'd him?
see him, the poor man's friend in need,
the gentleman in word an' deed—
an' shall his fame an' honour bleed
by worthless, skellums,
an' not a muse erect her head
to cowe the blellums?
o pope, had i thy satire's darts
to gie the rascals their deserts,
i'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
an' tell aloud
their jugglin hocus-pocus arts
to cheat the crowd.
god knows, i'm no the thing i should be,
nor am i evehing i could be,
but twenty times i rather would be
an atheist ,
than under gospel colours hid be
just for a s.
an ho man may like a glass,
an ho man may like a lass,
but mean revenge, an' malice fause
he'll still disdain,
an' then cry zeal fospel laws,
like some we ken.
they take religion in their mouth;
they talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,
for what?—to gie their malice skouth
on some puir wight,
an' hunt him down, owre right and ruth,
to ruin straight.
all hail, religion! maid divine!
pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
who in her rough imperfect line
thus daurs to hee;
to stigmatise false friends of thine
e'er defame thee.
tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain,
an' far unworthy of thy train,
with trembling voice i tune my strain,
to join with those
who boldly dare thy cause maintain
in spite of foes:
in spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,
in spite o' undermining jobs,
in spite o' dark banditti stabs
at worth a,
by sdrels, even wi' holy robes,
but hellish spirit.
o ayr! my dear, my native ground,
within thy presbyterial bound
a did liberal band is found
of public teachers,
as men, as christians too, renown'd,
an' manly preachers.
sir, in that circle you are nam'd;
sir, in that circle you are fam'd;
an' some, by whom your doe's blam'd
(which gies you honour)
even, sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,
an' winning manner.
pardon this freedom i have ta'en,
an' if imperti i've been,
impute it not, good sir, in ane
whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,
but to his utmost would befriend
ought that belang'd ye.