To The Rev. John M'Math.

By Robert Burns

Sept. 17th, 1785. While at the stook the shearers cow'r To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r To pass the time, To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme. My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet On gown, an' ban', and douse black bonnet, Is grown right eerie now she's done it, Lest they should blame her, An' rouse their holy thunder on it And anathem her. I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, That I, a simple countra bardie, Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi' a single wordie, Lowse hell upon me. But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin' cantin' grace-proud faces, Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces, Their raxin' conscience, Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces, Waur nor their nonsense. There's Gaun,[1] miska't waur than a beast, Wha has mair honour in his breast Than mony scores as guid's the priest Wha sae abus't him. An' may a bard no crack his jest What way they've use't him. See him, the poor man's friend in need, 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? O Pope, had I thy satire's darts 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. God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be, But twenty times, I rather wou'd be An atheist clean, Than under gospel colours hid be Just for a screen. An honest man may like a glass, 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 take religion in their mouth; They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth, For what? to gie their malice skouth On some puir wight, An' hunt him down, o'er right, an' ruth, To ruin straight. All hail, Religion! maid divine! Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, Who in her rough imperfect line, Thus daurs to name thee; To stigmatize false friends of thine Can ne'er defame thee. Tho' blotch'd an' foul wi' mony a stain, An' far unworthy of thy train, With trembling voice I tune my strain To join with those, Who boldly daur thy cause maintain In spite o' foes: In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, In spite of undermining jobs, In spite o' dark banditti stabs At worth an' merit, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, But hellish spirit. O Ayr! my dear, my native ground, Within thy presbyterial bound A candid lib'ral band is found Of public teachers, As men, as Christians too, renown'd, An' manly preachers. Sir, in that circle you are nam'd; 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. Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 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.