Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander’d in those paths

Of life I ought to shun;

As something, loudly, in my breast,

Remonstrates I have done;

Thou knowst that Thou hast formed me

With passions wild and strong;

And list’ning to their witching voice

Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,

Or frailty stept aside,

Do Thou, All-Good, for such Thou art,

In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err’d,

No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good, and Goodness still

Delighteth to forgive.

HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER

And send the Godly in a pet to pray.

– ALEXANDER POPE

O Thou that in the Heavens does dwell,

Wha, as it pleases best Thysel,

Sends ane to Heaven, an ten to Hell,

A’ for Thy glory,

And no for onie guid or ill

They’ve done before Thee!

I bless and praise Thy matchless might,

When thousands Thou hast left in night,

That I am here before Thy sight,

For gifts an grace

A burning and a shining light

To a’ this place.

What was I, or my generation,

That I should get sic exaltation?

I, wha deserv’d most just damnation

For broken laws,

Sax thousand years ere my creation,

Thro Adam’s cause!

When from my mither’s womb I fell,

Thou might hae plung’d me deep in Hell,

To gnash my gooms, and weep and wail,

In burning lakes,

Whare damned devils roar and yell,

Chain’d to their stakes.

Yet I am here a chosen sample,

To show Thy grace is great and ample:

I’m here, a pillar o Thy temple,

Strong as a rock,

A guide, a buckler, and example,

To a’ Thy flock.

But yet, O Lord! confess I must,

At times I’m fash’d wi fleshly lust;

An sometimes, too, in warldly trust,

Vile self gets in;

But Thou remembers we are dust,

Defil’d wi sin.

O Lord! yestreen, Thou kens, wi Meg –

Thy pardon I sincerely beg!

O, may’t ne’er be a livin plague

To my dishonour!

An I’ll ne’er lift a lawless leg

Again upon her.

Besides, I farther maun avow,

Wi Leezie’s lass, three times I trow –

But, Lord, that Friday I was fou,

When I cam near her,

Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true

Wad never steer her.

Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn

Buffet Thy servant e’en and morn,

Lest he owre proud and high should turn,

That he’s sae gifted:

If sae, Thy han’ maun e’en be borne,

Until Thou lift it.

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place,

For here Thou has a chosen race!

But God confound their stubborn face,

An blast their name,

Wha bring Thy rulers to disgrace

An open shame.

Lord, mind Gau’n Hamilton’s deserts:

He drinks, an swears, an plays at cartes,

Yet has sae monie takin arts,

Wi great and sma’,

Frae God’s ain Priest the people’s hearts

He steals awa.

And when we chasten’d him therefore,

Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,