lirik lagu holy willie's prayer by robert burns - john laurie
o thou, that in the heavens does dwell
as it pleases best thysel’
sends ane to heaven an’ ten to h~ll
for thy glory
and no for onie 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 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 d~mnation
for broken laws
six 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 h~ll
to gnash my gums, and weep and wail
in burnin lakes
where d~mned 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
o lord, thou kens what zeal i bear
when drinkers drink, an’ swearers swear
an’ singing here, an’ dancin there
wi’ great and 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 l~st:
an’ sometimes, too, in worldly 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 th~rn
buffet thy servant e’en and morn
lest he owre proud and high shou’d 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 there stubborn face
an’ blast their name
wha brings thy elders to disgrace
an’ open shame
lord, mind gaw’n hamilton’s deserts;
he drinks, an’ swears, an’ plays at cartes
yet has sae mony takin arts
wi’ great an’ 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
and set the world in a roar
o’ laughing at us;
curse thou his basket and his store
kail an’ potatoes
lord, hear my earnest cry and pray’r
against that presbyt’ry o’ ayr;
thy strong right hand, lord mak it bare
upo’ their heads;
lord visit them, an’ dinna spare
for their misdeeds
o lord my god! that glib~tongu’d aitken
my vera heart an’ flesh are quakin
to think how we stood sweatin, shakin
an’ pish’d wi’ dread
while he, wi’ hingin lip an’ snakin
held up his head
lord, in thy day o’ vengeance try him
lord, visit them wha did employ him
and pass not in thy mercy by them
nor hear their pray’r
but for thy people’s sake destroy them
an’ dinna spare
but, lord, remember me an’ mine
wi’ mercies temporal and divine
that i for grace an’ gear may shine
excell’d by nane
and a’ the glory shall be thine
amen, amen!
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