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crying out for bakes and gills,

      An’ there the pint-stowp clatters;

      While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang,

      Wi’ logic, an’ wi’ scripture,

      They raise a din, that, in the end,

      Is like to breed a rupture

      O’ wrath that day.

      Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair

      Than either school or college:

      It kindles wit, it waukens lair,

      It pangs us fou’ o’ knowledge,

      Be’t whisky gill, or penny wheep,

      Or any stronger potion,

      It never fails, on drinking deep,

      To kittle up our notion

      By night or day.

      The lads an’ lasses, blythely bent

      To mind baith saul an’ body,

      Sit round the table, weel content,

      An’ steer about the toddy.

      On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk,

      They’re making observations;

      While some are cozie i’ the neuk,

      An’ formin’ assignations

      To meet some day.

      But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts,

      Till a’ the hills are rairin’,

      An’ echoes back return the shouts:

      Black Russell is na’ sparin’:

      His piercing words, like Highlan’ swords,

      Divide the joints and marrow;

      His talk o’ Hell, where devils dwell,

      Our vera sauls does harrow[13]

      Wi’ fright that day.

      A vast, unbottom’d boundless pit,

      Fill’d fou o’ lowin’ brunstane,

      Wha’s ragin’ flame, an’ scorchin’ heat,

      Wad melt the hardest whunstane!

      The half asleep start up wi’ fear,

      An’ think they hear it roarin’,

      When presently it does appear,

      ’Twas but some neibor snorin’

      Asleep that day.

      ’Twad be owre lang a tale to tell

      How monie stories past,

      An’ how they crowded to the yill,

      When they were a’ dismist:

      How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups,

      Amang the furms an’ benches:

      An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps,

      Was dealt about in lunches,

      An’ dawds that day.

      In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife,

      An’ sits down by the fire,

      Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife;

      The lasses they are shyer.

      The auld guidmen, about the grace,

      Frae side to side they bother,

      Till some ane by his bonnet lays,

      An’ gi’es them’t like a tether,

      Fu’ lang that day.

      Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,

      Or lasses that hae naething;

      Sma’ need has he to say a grace,

      Or melvie his braw claithing!

      O wives, be mindfu’ ance yoursel

      How bonnie lads ye wanted,

      An’ dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,

      Let lasses be affronted

      On sic a day!

      Now Clinkumbell, wi’ ratlin tow,

      Begins to jow an’ croon;

      Some swagger hame, the best they dow,

      Some wait the afternoon.

      At slaps the billies halt a blink,

      Till lasses strip their shoon:

      Wi’ faith an’ hope, an’ love an’ drink,

      They’re a’ in famous tune

      For crack that day.

      How monie hearts this day converts

      O’ sinners and o’ lasses!

      Their hearts o’ stane, gin night, are gane,

      As saft as ony flesh is.

      There’s some are fou o’ love divine;

      There’s some are fou o’ brandy;

      An’ monie jobs that day begin

      May end in houghmagandie

      Some ither day.

      XXI. THE ORDINATION

      “For sense they little owe to frugal heav’n—

To please the mob they hide the little giv’n.”

      [This sarcastic sally was written on the admission of Mr. Mackinlay, as one of the ministers to the Laigh, or parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of April, 1786. That reverend person was an Auld Light professor, and his ordination incensed all the New Lights, hence the bitter levity of the poem. These dissensions have long since past away: Mackinlay, a pious and kind-hearted sincere man, lived down all the personalities of the satire, and though unwelcome at first, he soon learned to regard them only as a proof of the powers of the poet.]

      Kilmarnock wabsters fidge an’ claw,

      An’ pour your creeshie nations;

      An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw,

      Of a’ denominations,

      Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an’ a’,

      An’ there tak up your stations;

      Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw,

      An’ pour divine libations

      For joy this day.

      Curst Common-Sense, that imp o’ hell,

      Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder;[14]

      But Oliphant aft made her yell,

      An’ Russell sair misca’d her;

      This day Mackinlay taks the flail,

      And he’s the boy will blaud her!

      He’ll clap a shangan on her tail,

      An’ set the bairns to daud her

      Wi’ dirt this day.

      Mak haste an’ turn King David owre,

      An’ lilt wi’ holy clangor;

      O’ double verse come gie us four,

      An’ skirl up the Bangor:

      This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure,

      Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,

      For Heresy is in her pow’r,

      And gloriously she’ll whang her

      Wi’ pith this day.

      Come, let a proper text be read,

      An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour,

      How

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