Epistle To The Rev. John Mmath

    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 shun the bitter 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 sonnet
    on gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet,
    is grown right eerie now she's done it,
    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, country bardie,
    should 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, an' half-mile graces,
    their raxin conscience,
    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 even the thing i could be,
    but twenty times i rather would 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, 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 name thee;
    to stigmatise false friends of thine
    can ne'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 an' merit,
    by scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,
    but hellish spirit.
    o ayr! my dear, my native ground,
    within thy presbyterial bound
    a candid 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 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.