8
His haffit on his hand and sleepit:
When o'er his wig and Face sae grave
Fell flaffin doon, the auld sark sleeve.
A titter and a laugh began,
Whilk o‘er the congregation.
The worthy priest's gude wife surveyed
Wi' rage, the sport the young anes made,
And fry'd, and wus'd the deil might have
The gigglers, and the auld sark sleeve.
But by his sermon sair impressed,
He didna mind what round him pass'd,
His dreepin' nose rubb'd on his luif,
And on his coat tails dight it aff;
While some, frae 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,
And trailed the clout aff Bangor's wig,
And on her pike-staff made to wave,
Like tatter'd fig, the auld sark sleeve.
Then rax'd it heegh 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,
Observed it now—an auld sark sleeve!
FINIS
