That I for grace and gear may shine,
Excell’d by nane,
An’ a’ the glory shall be Thine,
Amen, Amen!
[He goes.]
Burns: Beware the end. Had he been a cleaner gospeller, that might be a thing to consider. But the man’s rotten—who is to be preached at by such a one? But, the end. Holy Willie there maybe has the truth of it, for all he’s a false and snivelling prophet. A pretty face, and I’m all song, all springtime. Is that peace in the end? Pretty, pretty Nell. But I’ll sing a song for Scotland yet before I founder—cottar though I be. A song to remember on the highways—aye, and in Courts too. But continence, Robin, or they will consume you.
O, were I on Parnassus hill,
Or had of Helicon my fill.
I must mend, indeed, indeed. And they are lovely, but deceivers—so positive and sly—deceivers—I’ll forswear them. I’ll be a monk, and none but John Barleycorn for merry company. Holy Willie is a bad man, but he spoke truth I fear, though by rule of the Kirk’s thumb. Forswear them, Robin.
[He sings.]