Here some are thinkin' on their sins,
An' some upo' their claes;

Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins,
Anither sighs an' prays:

On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi' screw'd up, grace-proud faces;
On that a set o' chaps, at watch,
Thrang winkin' on the lasses

To chairs that day.

O happy is that man an' blest!
Nae wonder that it pride him!
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best,
Comes clinkin' down beside him!
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back
He sweetly does compose him;

Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
An's loof upon her bosom,

Unkenn'd that day.

90

Now a' the congregation o'er
Is silent expectation;

For Moodie speels the holy door,
Wi' tidings o' damnation.

Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
'Mang sons o' God present him,
The very sight o' Moodie's face
To's ain het hame had sent him

Wi' fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o' faith
Wi' rattlin' an' wi' thumpin'!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
He's stampin' an' he's jumpin'!
His lengthen'd chin, his turned-up snout,
His eldritch squeal an' gestures,

O how they fire the heart devout,
Like cantharidian plaisters,
On sic a day!

But, hark! the tent has chang'd its voice;
There's peace an' rest nae langer;
For a' the real judges rise,

They canna sit for anger.

Smith opens out his cauld harangues,
On practice and on morals;

An' aff the godly pour in thrangs

To gie the jars an' barrels

A lift that day.

What signifies his barren shine
Of moral pow'rs an' reason?
His English style an' gesture fine
Are a' clean out o' season.
Like Socrates or Antonine,

Or some auld pagan Heathen,
The moral man he does define,
But ne'er a word o' faith in

That's right that day.

In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison'd nostrum ;
For Peebles, frae the water-fit,
Ascends the holy rostrum:

See, up he's got the word o' God,
An' meek an' mim has view'd it,

While Common Sense has ta'en the road,
An' aff, an' up the Cowgate

Fast, fast, that day.

Wee Miller, neist, the Guard relieves,

An' Orthodoxy raibles,

Tho' in his heart he weel believes,

An' thinks it auld wives' fables:

But, faith the birkie wants a Manse,
So cannilie he hums them;

Altho' his carnal wit an' sense

Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him

At times that day.

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130

140

150

Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills,
Wi' yill-caup Commentators;
Here's crying out for bakes an' 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 gi'es 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 ony stronger potion,

It never fails, on drinkin' 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 makin observations;

While some are cosy i' the neuk,

An' formin' assignations

160

170

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,

Till a' the hills are rairin',

An' echoes back return the shouts ;
Black Russel is na sparin':

His piercing words, like Highlan' swords,
Divide the joints an' marrow;

His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell,

Our very 'sauls does harrow'

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 whun-stane !
The half-asleep start up wi' fear

An' think they hear it roarin',
When presently it does appear
'Twas but some neebor snorin'

Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell
How mony 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 and benches;

An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,
Was dealt about in lunches,

An' dawds that day.

In comes a gawsie, 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!

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200

210

220

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' 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 mony 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' mony jobs that day begin,

May end in houghmagandie

Some ither day.

230

240

THE TWA DOGS.

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's Isle,
That bears the name o' auld King Coil,
Upon a bonnie day in June,

When wearin' through the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that werena thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar,
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure;
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs,
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar,
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar ;

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