Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn
Beset thy servant e'en an' morn

Lest he owre high an' 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
And public shame.

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts,
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes1,
Yet has sae mony takin' arts,

Wi' grit an' sma'2,

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

And whan we chasten'd him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore3,
As set the warld in a roar

O' laughin' at us,

Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail and potatoes.

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r
Against the Presbyt'ry of Ayr;

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

Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare,

For their misdeeds.

Oh Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken,
My very heart and saul are quakin',
To think how we stood groanin', shakin',
And swat wi' dread,

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

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him,
Lord, visit them wha did employ him,
And 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 gear1 and grace may shine,
Excell'd by nane,

And a' the glory shall be thine,
Amen, amen!

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.

ERE Holy Willie's sair-worn clay

HER

Tak's up its last abode;

His saul has ta'en some ither way,
I fear the left-hand road.

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

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 ha'e nane;
Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er,
And mercy's day is gane.

But hear me, sir, de'il as ye are,

Look something to your credit;
A coof1 like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it.

CHARLES LAMB.

(1775-1835-)

XLVIII. A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.

Published originally in 1811 in The Reflector, No. 4. As Lamb himself states, it was meditated for two years before it was committed to paper in 1805, but not published until six years afterwards.

AY the Babylonish curse

MAY

Straight confound my stammering verse,

If I can a passage see

In this word-perplexity,
Or a fit expression find,

Or a language to my mind.

(Still the phrase is wide or scant),

To take leave of thee, Great Plant!

Or in any terms relate

Half my love, or half my hate:

For I hate yet love thee so,

That, whichever thing I show,

The plain truth will seem to be

A constrained hyperbole,

And the passions to proceed

More from a mistress than a weed.

1 fool.

Sooty retainer to the vine,

Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;
Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon
Thy begrimed complexion,
And, for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimèd lovers take

'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay
Much too in the female way,

While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath
Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us,

That our worst foes cannot find us,
And ill fortune, that would thwart us,

Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;

While each man, through thy height'ning steam,

Does like a smoking Etna seem,

And all about us does express
(Fancy and wit in richest dress)

A Sicilian fruitfulness

Thou through such a mist dost show us,
That our best friends do not know us,
And, for those allowèd features,
Due to reasonable creatures,
Liken'st us to fell Chimeras-
Monsters that, who see us, fear us;
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,
Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow
His tipsy rites. But what art thou,
That but by reflex canst show
What his deity can do,

As the false Egyptian spell

Aped the true Hebrew miracle?
Some few vapours thou may'st raise,
The weak brain may serve to amaze.
But to the reins and nobler heart
Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born,
The old world was sure forlorn
Wanting thee, that aidest more
The god's victories than before
All his panthers, and the brawls
Of his piping Bacchanals.
These, as stale, we disallow,
Or judge of thee meant: only thou
His true Indian conquest art;
And, for ivy round his dart,
The reformed god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume
Chemic art did ne'er presume
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sovereign to the brain.
Nature, that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell.
Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant;
Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind,
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,
Africa, that brags her foison,

Breeds no such prodigious poison,
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite-