I honestly confess that I would hinder
The Scottish member’s legislative rigs,
    That spiritual Pinder,
Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs,
That must be lash’d by law, wherever found,
And driv’n to church, as to the parish pound. 
I do confess, without reserve or wheedle,
I view that grovelling idea as one
Worthy some parish clerk’s ambitious son,
A charity-boy, who longs to be a beadle.

On such a vital topic sure ’tis odd
How much a man can differ from his neighbor: 
One wishes worship freely giv’n to God,
Another wants to make it statute-labor—­
The broad distinction in a line to draw,
As means to lead us to the skies above,
You say—­Sir Andrew and his love of law,
And I—­the Saviour with his law of love.

Spontaneously to God should tend the soul,
Like the magnetic needle to the Pole;
But what were that intrinsic virtue worth,
Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge,
  Fresh from St. Andrew’s College,
Should nail the conscious needle to the north?

I do confess that I abhor and shrink
From schemes, with a religious willy-nilly,
That frown upon St. Giles’s sins, but blink
The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly—­
My soul revolts at such a bare hypocrisy,
And will not, dare not, fancy in accord
The Lord of Hosts with an Exclusive Lord
  Of this world’s aristocracy. 
It will not own a notion so unholy,
As thinking that the rich by easy trips
May go to heav’n, whereas the poor and lowly
Must work their passage, as they do in ships.

One place there is—­beneath the burial sod,
Where all mankind are equalized by death;
Another place there is—­the Fane of God,
Where all are equal, who draw living breath;—­
Juggle who will elsewhere with his own soul,
Playing the Judas with a temporal dole—­
He who can come beneath that awful cope,
In the dread presence of a Maker just,
Who metes to ev’ry pinch of human dust
One even measure of immortal hope—­
He who can stand within that holy door,
With soul unbow’d by that pure spirit-level,
And frame unequal laws for rich and poor,—­
Might sit for Hell and represent the Devil!

Such are the solemn sentiments, O Rae,
In your last Journey-Work, perchance you ravage,
Seeming, but in more courtly terms, to say
I’m but a heedless, creedless, godless savage;
A very Guy, deserving fire and faggots,—­
    A Scoffer, always on the grin,
And sadly given to the mortal sin
Of liking Maw-worms less than merry maggots!

The humble records of my life to search,
I have not herded with mere pagan beasts;
But sometimes I have “sat at good men’s feasts,”
And I have been “where bells have knoll’d to church.” 
Dear bells! how sweet the sounds of village bells
When on the undulating air they swim! 
Now loud as welcomes! faint, now, as farewells!