But then, nae thanks to him for a’that;
     Nae godly symptom ye can ca’ that;
     It’s naething but a milder feature
     Of our poor, sinfu’ corrupt nature: 
     Ye’ll get the best o’ moral works,
     ’Mang black Gentoos, and pagan Turks,
     Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,
     Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
     That he’s the poor man’s friend in need,
     The gentleman in word and deed,
     It’s no thro’ terror of damnation;
     It’s just a carnal inclination.

     Morality, thou deadly bane,
     Thy tens o’ thousands thou hast slain! 
     Vain is his hope, whase stay an’ trust is
     In moral mercy, truth, and justice!

     No—­stretch a point to catch a plack: 
     Abuse a brother to his back;
     Steal through the winnock frae a whore,
     But point the rake that taks the door;
     Be to the poor like ony whunstane,
     And haud their noses to the grunstane;
     Ply ev’ry art o’ legal thieving;
     No matter—­stick to sound believing.

     Learn three-mile pray’rs, an’ half-mile graces,
     Wi’ weel-spread looves, an’ lang, wry faces;
     Grunt up a solemn, lengthen’d groan,
     And damn a’ parties but your own;
     I’ll warrant they ye’re nae deceiver,
     A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

     O ye wha leave the springs o’ Calvin,
     For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin! 
     Ye sons of Heresy and Error,
     Ye’ll some day squeel in quaking terror,
     When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath. 
     And in the fire throws the sheath;
     When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,
     Just frets till Heav’n commission gies him;
     While o’er the harp pale Misery moans,
     And strikes the ever-deep’ning tones,
     Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!

     Your pardon, sir, for this digression: 
     I maist forgat my Dedication;
     But when divinity comes ’cross me,
     My readers still are sure to lose me.

     So, sir, you see ’twas nae daft vapour;
     But I maturely thought it proper,
     When a’ my works I did review,
     To dedicate them, sir, to you: 
     Because (ye need na tak it ill),
     I thought them something like yoursel’.

     Then patronize them wi’ your favor,
     And your petitioner shall ever—­
     I had amaist said, ever pray,
     But that’s a word I need na say;
     For prayin, I hae little skill o’t,
     I’m baith dead-sweer, an’ wretched ill o’t;
     But I’se repeat each poor man’s pray’r,
     That kens or hears about you, sir—­

     “May ne’er Misfortune’s gowling bark,
     Howl thro’ the dwelling o’ the clerk! 
     May ne’er his genrous, honest heart,
     For that same gen’rous spirit smart! 
     May Kennedy’s far-honour’d name
     Lang beet his hymeneal