Robert Burns
(1759-1796.)
XLVI. Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly Righteous
My son, these maxims make a rule,
And lump them aye thegither;
The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
The Rigid Wise anither;
The cleanest corn that ere was dight
May ha’e some pyles o’ caff in;
So ne’er a fellow-creature slight
For random fits o’ daffin’.—Solomon.
—Eccles. vii. 16.
This undoubtedly ranks as one of the noblest satires in our literature. It was first published as a broadside, and afterwards incorporated in the Kilmarnock and Edinburgh editions.
Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel’,
Sae pious an’ sae holy,
Ye’ve nought to do but mark an’ tell
Your neebour’s fauts an’ folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun216 mill,
Supplied wi’ store o’ water,
The heaped happer’s217 ebbing still,
An’ still the clap plays clatter.
Hear me, ye venerable core,
As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door,
For glaiket218 Folly’s portals;
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences,
Their donsie219 tricks, their black mistakes
Their failings an’ mischances.
Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d,
An’ shudder at the niffer220,
But cast a moment’s fair regard,
What mak’s the mighty differ?
Discount what scant occasion gave
That purity ye pride in,
An’ (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave)
Your better art o’ hiding.
Think, when your castigated pulse
Gi’es now an’ then a wallop,
What ragings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop.
Wi’ wind an’ tide fair i’ your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,
It makes an unco lee-way.
See social life an’ glee sit down,
All joyous an’ unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrified, they’re grown
Debauchery an’ drinking:
Oh would they stay to calculate
Th’ eternal consequences;
Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses!
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gi’e poor frailty names,
Suppose a change o’ cases;
A dear loved lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination—
But, let me whisper i’ your lug221,
Ye’er aiblins222 nae temptation.
Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Though they may gang a kennin’ wrang,
To step aside is human:
One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving why they do it:
An’ just as lamely can ye mark,
How far perhaps they rue it.
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.
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’d223 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.
Lord, mind Cawn Hamilton’s deserts,
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes224,
Yet has sae mony takin’ arts,
Wi’ grit an’ sma’225,
Frae God’s ain priests the people’s hearts
He steals awa’.
And whan we chasten’d him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore226,
As set the warld in a roar
O’ laughin’ at us,—
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail and potatoes.
Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray’r
Against the Presbyt’ry of Ayr;
Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak’ it bare
Upo’ their heads,
Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.
Oh Lord my God, that glib-tongu’d Aiken,
My very heart and saul are quakin’,
To think how we stood groanin’, shakin’,
And swat wi’ dread,
While he wi’ hingin’ lips and snakin’,
Held up his head.
Lord, in the day of 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,
And dinna spare,
But, Lord, remember me and mine,
Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,
That I for gear227 and grace 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
Tak’s up its last abode;
His saul has ta’en some ither 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 brunstane228 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 ha’e nane;
Justice, alas! has gi’en him o’er,
And mercy’s day is gane.
But hear me, sir, de’il as ye are,
Look something to your credit;
A coof229 like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it.
Notes
216 well-going.
217 hopper.
218 idle.
219 unlucky.
220 exchange.
221 ear.
222 perhaps.
223 troubled.
224 cards.
225 great and small.
226 row.
227 wealth.
228 brimstone.
229 fool.