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,