8
But when his nose he wad relieve,
His thumbs gade thro' the Auld Sark Sleeve.
'Twas then laid doon whar 'twas before,
But by mischance 'twas soon 'ea'd o'er.
Meantime the sage precentor keepit
His hafit on his land an' sleepit:—
When o'er his wig end face sae grave
Fell faffin doon, the Airld Sark Sleeve.
A titter an' a laugh began,
Whilk o'er the congregation ran.
The worthy priest's gudewife surveyed
Wi' rage, the sport the young anes made,
An' fry'd an' wus'd the deil might have
The gigglers, an' the Auld Sark Sleeve.
But by his sermon sare impressed,
He didna mind whát round him past:
His dreepin' nose robbed on his luif,
An' on his coat tails dight it aff";
While some, free sport, began to grieve,
To see him miss his Auld Sark Sleeve.
A crone sat near, wha pity thought
The man o' God should want for ought;
She scrambled on her stool fu' big,
An' trailed the clout aff Bangor's wig,
An' on her pike-staff made to wave,
Like tatter'd' flag, the Auld Sark Sleeve.
Then rax'd it heogh aboon the pu'pit,
To gar the earnest preacher note it.
The folk nae langer could refrain,
But burst out in a roarin' vein.
The gude divine, like a' the laive,
