"I fear your Majesty is raving drunk.
I would be courteous."
But the Devil laughed
And slyly winked and sagely shook his head.
"My fawning dog," the sage satanic said,
"Wags not his tail for me but for my bread.
Brains rule to day as they have ruled for aye,
And craft grown craftier in this modern day
Still rides the fools, but in a craftier way;
And priestcraft lingers and survives its use;
What was a blessing once is now abuse:
Grown fat and arrogant on power and pelf,
The old-time shepherd has become a wolf
And only feeds his flocks to feast himself.
To clink of coin the pious juggler jumps,
For still he thinks, as in the days of old,
The key to holy heaven is made of gold,
That in the game of mortals money is trumps,
That golden darts will pierce e'en Virtue's shield,
And by the salve of gold all sins are healed.
So old Saint Peter stands outside the fence
With hand outstretched for toll of Peter-pence,
And sinners' souls must groan in Purgatory
Until they pay the admission-fee to glory.

"There was an honest poet once on earth
Who beat all other bardies at a canter;
Rob' Burns his mother called him at his birth.
Though handicapped by rum and much a ranter,
He won the madcap race in _Tam O'Shanter_.
He drove a spanking span from Scottish heather,
Strong-limbed, but light of foot as flea or feather--
Rhyme and Reason, matched and yoked together,
And reined them with light hand and limber leather.
He wrote to me once on a time--I mind it--
A bold epistle and the poet signed it.
He thought to cheat "Auld Nickie" of his dues,
But who outruns the Devil casts his shoes;
And so at last from frolicking and drinkin',
'Some luckless hour' sent him to Hell 'alinkin'![CW]
Times had been rather dull in my dominion,
And all my imps like lubbers lay a snoring,
But Burns began to rhyme us his opinion,
And in ten minutes had all Hell aroaring.
Then Robbie pulled his book of poems out
And read us sundry satires from the book;
'_Death and Doctor Hornbook_' raised a shout
Till all the roof-tin on the rafters shook;
And when his '_Unco Guid_' the bardie read
The crew all clapped their hands and yelled like mad;
But '_Holy Willie's Prayer_' 'brought down the house'.
So I was glad to give the bard a pass
And a few pence for toll at Peter's gate;
For if the roof of Hell were made of brass
Bob Burns would shake it off as sure as fate.
I mind it well--that poem on a louse!
'O wad some pow'r the giftie