The Poetical Works of Robert Burns

THE TWA HERDS.

Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor, But Fool with Fool is barbarous civil war.

O A' ye pious godly flocks,
Weel fed on pastures orthodox,
Wha now will keep you frae the fox,
Or worrying tykes?
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks,
About the dykes?

The twa best herds in a' the wast,
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast,
These five and twenty summers past,
O dool to tell!

Hae had a bitter black out-cast,
Atween themsel.

O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russel, How could you raise so vile a bustle, Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle,

And think it fine!

The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, Sin' I hae min'.

O, Sirs, whae'er wad hae expeckit,
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,
Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit,
To wear the plaid,

But by the brutes themselves eleckit
To be their guide.

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank,

Sae hale and hearty every shank,
Nae poison'd soor Arminians stank
He let them taste,
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank:
O' sic a feast!

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock and tod, Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, He smell'd their ilka hole and road,

Baith out and in, And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, And sell their skin.

Pope.

What herd like Russel tell'd his tale,
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale,
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,
O'er a' the height,

And saw gin they were sick or hale,
Át the first sight.

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,
Or nobly fling the gospel club,
And new-light herds could nicely drub,
Or pay their skin,
Could shake them owre the burning dub,
Or heave them in.

Sic twa - O! do I live to see't,
Sic famous twa should disagreet,
An' names, like 'villain,' 'hypocrite,'
Ilk ither gi'en,
While new-light herds wi'laughin'spite,
Say, 'neither's liein'!

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, There's Duncan deep, and Peebles shaul,

But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,
We trust in thee,
That thou wilt work them, hot and
cauld,
Till they agree.

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset,
There's scarce a new herd that we get,
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set
I winna name,
I hope frae Heaven to see them yet
In fiery flame.

Dalrymple has been lang our fae,
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae,
And that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhey,
And baith the Shaws,
That aft hae made us black and blae,
Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mis- | Come join your counsels and your skills, chief, To cowe the lairds,

We thought aye death wad bring re- And get the brutes the power themsels lief,

But he has gotten, to our grief,
Ane to succeed him,
A chiel wha'll soundly buff
beef;

I meikle dread him.

Our

And monie a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel,
Forby turn-coats amang oursel,
There's Smith for ane,
I doubt he's but a grey nick quill,
And that ye'll fin'.

O! a' ye flocks, ow're a' the hills,
By mosses, meadows, moors, and
fells,

To choose their herds.

TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH.

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD

REQUESTED.

WHILE at the stook the shearers cowr

To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,

Or in gulravage rinnin scour

To pass the time,

To you I dedicate the hour

In idle rhyme.

My musie, tir'd wi' monie a sonnet

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she's done it,

Lest they shou'd blame her,

An' rouse their holy thunder on it,
And anathem her.

I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy,
That I, a simple countra bardie,
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack so sturdy,
Wha, if they ken me,

Can easy, wi' a single wordie,

Loose hell upon me.

Sept. 17th, 1785.

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, miska't waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast
Than monie scores as guid's the priest
Wha sae abus'd him;

An' 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' no 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 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 tak 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't an' foul wi' monie a stain,
An' far unworthy of thy train,

Wi' trembling voice I tune my strain
To join wi' 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 presbytereal 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.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.

O THOU, wha in the Heavens dost | I bless and praise thy matchless might,

dwell,

Wha, as it pleases best thysel',

Sends ane to Heaven and ten to Hell,
A' for thy glory,

And no for onie guid or ill

They've done afore thee!

Whan thousands thou hast left in

night,

That I am here afore thy sight,
For gifts an' grace,

A burning an' a shinin light,
To a' this place.

Yet I am here a chosen sample,

May be thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted; If sae, thy hand 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,
An' public shame.

To show thy grace is great and ample; Lord, mind Gavin Hamilton's deserts,

I'm here a pillar in thy temple,

Strong as a rock,

A guide, a buckler, an example To a' thy flock.

O Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear, When drinkers drink, and swearers

swear,

And singin there and dancin here,
Wi' great an' 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, wi' warldly trust,
Vile self gets in;

But thou remembers we are dust,
Defil'd in sin.

O Lord! yestreen, thou kens,
Meg-

Thy pardon I sincerely beg,
O! may it ne'er be a livin plague
To my dishonour,

An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.

He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at

Lord, hear my earnest cry an' pray'r Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr; wi' Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it

Besides I farther maun allow,
Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow;
But Lord, that Friday I was fou,

When I came near her,

Or else thou kens thy servant true Wad ne'er hae steer'd her.

bare,

Upo' their heads;

Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds.

O Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd
Aiken,

My very heart and soul are quakin,
To think how we stood sweatin, shak-

in,

An' p-d wi' dread,

While he, wi' hingin lips an' snakin' Held up his head.

Livros

The Poetical Works of Robert Burns, Volume 1