  The following poem was given under the inspiration of Robert Burns, at the close of a lecture on “The Immaculate Conception.” Guid Friends: I will na’ weave my rhymes to-night In winsome measure, Or strive your fancies to delight Wi’ songs o’ pleasure; But gin O’ solemn preachin’, I’ll gie ye just anither touch O’ useful teachin’. But, aiblins, Ye may be thinkin’ That I hae sunk frae bad to warse, And still am sinkin’; But though I seem to fa’ from grace, In man’s opinion, Auld Hornie ne’er will see my face In his dominion. An unco O’er all your dreamin’, And ye shall see that right and wrang Are much in seemin’. Man shall na’ langer perjure love, Nor think it treason Anent To use his reason. Ay, love and nature, frae the first, Hae been perverted, And man, frae Adam, will be cursed, Till he’s converted: For Nature will avenge her cause On ilka Who will na’ take her, wi’ her laws, For guide and teacher. Auld Custom is a sleekit And sae is Fashion, And baith will watch till sinners faint, To lay the lash on; Men follow them wi’ ane accord, Led by their noses, Because they cry, “Thus saith the Lord, The God o’ Moses. The time will come when man will ken God’s word far better; He’ll live mair in the spirit then, Less in the letter; And that which man ance called impure, Through partial seein’, He’ll find for it baith cause and cure, In his ain bein’. Man needna’ gae to auld lang syne For truth to guide him, For if he seeks, he sure will fin’ Truth close beside him. Each gowan To be his teacher, And ilka toddlin’ weanie’s Is text and preacher. Man was na’ born a child o’ hell Frae his creation: The love that made him will itsel’ Be his salvation. Each child that’s born o’ perfect love Can be man’s saviour: Love is his warrant frae above, For guid behavior. His mither may be high or low, A Miss or Madam; The God within him will outgrow The sin o’ Adam; His only bed may be the earth, His hame a shealin’; It will na’ change his real worth, Or inward feelin’. Though born beneath the Church’s ban, Or man’s displeasure, He will na’ be the less a man In mind or measure. God’s image, stamped upon his brow, Is his defender, And makes him—as ye hae it now— “Guid legal tender.” But ilka child that’s born o’ hate— However lawful— Will be the victim, sune or late, O’ passions awful; Will hirple Wi’ friends scarce ony, And in the dour Find faes full mony. The Power aboon, sae kind and guid, Who ever sees us, Will gie to men, whene’er they need, A John or Jesus. The sin o’ Adam will na’ cause His love to vary, Nor need he change creation’s laws To form a Mary. Man’s sympathies must largely share In what is human, And he will love the truth the mair, That’s born o’ woman. The De’il himsel’, at last, through love Will be converted, And, reckoned wi’ the saunts above, Leave hell deserted. The One who laid Creation’s plan Knows how to end it, Nor need he ever call on man To help him mend it. Then, syne And man your brither, Gae on rejoicing to the end, Wi’ ane anither. |
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