The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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      Sept. 17th, 1785.

      While at the stook the shearers cow’r

      To shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r,

      Or in gulravage rinnin’ scow’r

      To pass the time,

      To you I dedicate the hour

      In idle rhyme.

      My musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnet

      On gown, an’ ban’, and douse black bonnet,

      Is grown right eerie now she’s done it,

      Lest they should blame her,

      An’ rouse their holy thunder on it

      And anathem her.

      I own ’twas rash, an’ rather hardy,

      That I, a simple countra bardie,

      Shou’d meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy,

      Wha, if they ken me,

      Can easy, wi’ a single wordie,

      Lowse hell upon me.

      But I gae mad at their grimaces,

      Their sighin’ cantin’ grace-proud faces,

      Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces,

      Their raxin’ conscience,

      Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces,

      Waur nor their nonsense.

      There’s Gaun,[45] miska’t waur than a beast,

      Wha has mair honour in his breast

      Than mony scores as guid’s the priest

      Wha sae abus’t him.

      An’ may a bard no crack his jest

      What way they’ve use’t 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 shou’d be,

      Nor am I even the thing I cou’d be,

      But twenty times, I rather wou’d be

      An atheist clean,

      Than under gospel colours hid be

      Just for a screen.

      An honest man may like a glass,

      An honest man may like a lass,

      But mean revenge, an’ malice fause

      He’ll still disdain,

      An’ then cry zeal for gospel 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, o’er right, an’ 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 name thee;

      To stigmatize false friends of thine

      Can ne’er defame thee.

      Tho’ blotch’d an’ foul wi’ mony a stain,

      An’ far unworthy of thy train,

      With trembling voice I tune my strain

      To join with those,

      Who boldly daur thy cause maintain

      In spite o’ foes:

      In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mobs,

      In spite of undermining jobs,

      In spite o’ dark banditti stabs

      At worth an’ merit,

      By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes,

      But hellish spirit.

      O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,

      Within thy presbyterial bound

      A candid lib’ral 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 doctrine’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 impertinent 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.

      Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,

      O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!

      Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

      Wi’ bickering brattle!

      I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,

      Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

      I’m truly sorry man’s dominion

      Has broken nature’s social union,

      An’ justifies that ill opinion,

      Which makes thee startle

      At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

      An’ fellow-mortal!

      I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;

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