  Given under the inspiration of Robert Burns. Men say the De’il is dead at last, And that his course is ended, Which sure must be an unco loss To those whom he befriended. No doubt he managed to evade The sinner’s awful sentence, By that last trick, so often played, Of a death-bed repentance. Alas! alas! we dinna ken What will be done without him, For all the pious sons of men Made such a rant about him. Whene’er they chanced to gang agley, Or did a deed of evil, Or winked at sin upon “the sly,” ’Twas all laid to the Deevel. But henceforth they must bear their sin, And come to the confession, Without a single hope to win A pardon for transgression; Unless, indeed, they try the plan Of wise old Orthodoxy, Invented for puir sinful man, O’ saving souls by proxy. But hoolie! what a grand mistake Was made at the creation, That God should e’er a De’il make, To peril men’s salvation. He might have made puir man, nae doubt, To grace a greater debtor, Had he but left the De’il out, Or only made man better. I wad na mock at honest faith, Or utter thought profanely, But then ’tis better for us baith, That truth be spoken plainly. The great, guid God, who loves us a’, Is sure misrepresented, Whene’er men say he cursed us a’ In what he could prevented. And as for Hornie—Nickie-ben— Auld cloven-foot or Deevil,— I dinna think that he has been, The cause o’ all man’s evil. Now that the puir old soul is gone, He does na’ seem so hateful, And those who live, his loss to mourn, Should speak na’ word ungrateful. The clergy, sure, have lost a friend Who never had a rival— And henceforth all their hopes must end, O’ raising a revival. For when a rout and rant they made, To turn puir souls frae error, The De’il was half their stock in trade, To fill men’s hearts wi’ terror. The politicians might as weel Gie o’er each vain endeavor— What unco sorrow must they feel, Now he is gone forever! In all their dealings, hand in hand, They went with him thegither, They executed what he planned, And each helped on the ither. And then the long-faced, praying saints, Who worshiped God on Sunday, And set aside their pious feints, To serve the De’il on Monday— They evermore, with empty word, Professed their hate of evil; But while they cried “Guid Lord! Guid Lord,” They said aside, “Guid Devil!” We dinna ken what caused his death, Or ended his probation, Whether it was that he lacked breath, Or lacked appreciation. Perhaps the “origin o’ Sin” Has proved too tough a question; He took it for his meat within, And died o’ indigestion. Farewell! farewell! auld Nickie-ben; We trust ye are forgiven, For doubtless ye made haste to men’, And make your peace wi’ heaven. We leave your burial, guid or bad, To Truth, as undertaker, And your puir soul, such as ye had, Commend unto its Maker. |
|
