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There's the pilensuse o' the heart,
Ye has your Mop your dearest part,
It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name:
An' sets me a' on flame!
O all ye Pow'rs who rule above!
Her dear idea brings relief,
And solace to my breast.
O hear my fervent pray'r;
All hail! ye tender feelings dear!
Long since, this world's thorny ways
Had it not been for you!
Fate still has blest me with a friend,
And oft a more endearing band
A tie more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens
To meet with, and greet with
O, how that name inspires my style!
Amaist before I ken!
The ready measure rins as fine,
Were glowrin owre my pen.
O THOU, who in the heavens Sces well.
Who, as a pleases best Thysel.
Sends are to heaven an' ten to bell,
A' for Thy glory,
And no for any gude or
They've done afore Thee!
I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
For gifts an' grace
A burning and a shining light
To a' this place.
What was I, or my generation,
Five thousand years ere my creation,
When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might hae plungèd me in hell, To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, In burnin lakes,
Where 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;
O Lord, Thou kens what zeal I bear, When drinkers drink, an' swearers swear, An' singin there, an' dancin here,
Wi' great and sma';
For I am keepit by Thy fear
Free frae them a'.
But yet, O Lord! confess I must,
But Thou remembers we are dust,
Defil'd wi' sin.
O Lord! yestreen, Thou kens, wi' MegThy 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 allow,
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.
Jute Treater and morn,
Fur and high shou'd turn,
Itar maur een be borne,
Lra nes The chosen in this place,
being Theders te Eisgrace
Lei mad Gew`n Hamilton's deserts; He drinks in swears, an plays at cartes, Yet has sie moN BÈT LA
W: great and sma',
Frae God's aiz priest the people's hearts He steals aw2.
An' when we dusend him therefor,
O'laughing at us;—
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray't,
Against that Presbyt'ry o' Avr;
Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare Upo' their heads;
Lord visit them, an' dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.
O Lord, my God! that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My vera heart and flesh are quakin,
To think how we stood sweatin', shakin, An' p-'d wi' dread,
While he, wi' hingin lip an' snakin,
Held up his head.