Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
70 . Epistle to the Rev. John M’Math
W
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.
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. 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. 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. 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? 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? 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. 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 lass, But mean revenge, an’ malice fause He’ll still disdain, An’ then cry zeal for gospel laws, Like some we ken. 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. 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. 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’ undermining jobs, In spite o’ dark banditti stabs At worth an’ merit, By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes, But hellish spirit. 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 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. 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.