16
Consider, sirs, now this his crime,
’Tis no like hers, or yours, or mine,
He’s just next thing to a divine,
An’ wow, ’tis odd,
Sic men shou’d a’ their senses tine,
An’ fear o’ God.
’Tis strange what makes kirk-fouk sae stupit,
To mak or meddle wi’ the fuca’it,
Or mint to preach in sic a pu’pit,
The senseless fools:
Far better for them hunt the tyouchet,
Or teaeh their schools.
They hunt about frae house to house,
Just as a taylor hunts a louse,
Still girding at the barley-juice,
An’ aft get drunk,
They plump into some open sluice,
Where a’ is sunk.
A plague upo’ that oil o’ ma’t,
That weary drink is a’ their fau’t,
It made our Dominie to hau’t;
The text fulfil,
Which bids cast out the sa’tless sa’t
To the dunghill.
They are sae fed, they lie sae saft,
They are sae hain’d, they grow sae daft;
This breeds ill wiles, ye ken, fu’ aft
In the black coat,
Till poor Mess John, an’ the priest-craft
Gaes ti’ the pot.
