And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock,

Wi' justice they may mark your head "Here lies a famous Bullock!"

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.

O THOU, wha in the heavens dost dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best thysel',
Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell,
A' for thy glory,

And no for ony guid or ill

They've done afore thee!

I bless and praise thy matchless might, When thousands thou hast left in night. That I am here afore thy sight,

For gifts an' grace,

A burnin' an' a shinin' light,

To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get such exaltation?
I, wha deserve sic just damnation,
For broken laws,

Five thousand years 'fore my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell,

Thou might hae plung'd me into hell.

To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin' lake,

Whare damned devils roar and yell,
Chain'd to a staik.

Yet I am here, a chosen sample,
To show thy grace is great an' ample;
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' here, and dancin' there,

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.

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.

Maybe 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 han' 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.

Lord, mind G-n H-n's deserts,
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at carts,
Yet has sae monie takin' arts,

Wi' grit an' sma',

Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts He steals awa'.

An' whan he chasten'd him therefor,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
An' set the warld in a roar

O' laughin' at us;

Curse thou his basket and his store,
Kail an' potatoes.

Lord, hear my earnest cry an' pray'r,
Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr;

Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare,
Upo' their heads!

Lord, weigh it down, an' dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.

O Lord, my God, that glib-tongu’d A-
My very heart an' saul are quakin',
To think how we stood sweatin', shakin',
An' dd wi' dread,

While he, wi' hinging lips and snakin',
Held up his head.

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him,
Lord, visit them wha did employ him,
An' pass not in thy mercy by 'em,
Nor hear their pray'r;

But for thy people's sake, destroy 'em,
And dinna spare.

But, Lord, remember me and mine
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excell'd by nane;

An' a' the glory shall be thine.
Amen, Amen.

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE

HERE Holy Willie's sair-worn clay
Takes up its last abode;

His saul has taen some other way,
I fear the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is as sure's a gun,
Poor silly body, see him;

-n,

Nae wonder he's as black's the grun,
Observe wha's standing wi' him.

Your brunstane devilship, I see,
Has got him there before ye;
But haud your nine-tail cat a-wee,
Till ance you've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye hae nane;
Justice, alas! has gien him o'er,
And mercy's day is gaen.

But hear me, Sir Deil as ye are,
Look something to your credit,
A coof like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it.

THE KIRK'S ALARM.*

A SATIRE.

ORTHODOX, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience; There's a heretic blast has been blawn in the wast, That what is no sense must be nonsense.

This poem was written a short time after the publication of Dr. M'Gill's Essay.