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Now a'the congregation o'er

Is silent expectation :
For Moodie speels the holy door,

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-tion.
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,

'Mang sons o' God present him, The vera 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 turn'd-up snout,

His eldritch squeel and gestures, Oh, how they fire the heart devout, Like cantharidian plasters,

On sic a day.

But, hark! the tent has chang'd its voice ; There's


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 and 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 :

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.

See, up

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, cannily he hums them;
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense
Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him

At times that da

* A street so called, which faces the tent in Mauchline.

Now but an' ben, the Change-house fills,

Wi' yill-caup commentators : Here's 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 ony 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 L-d's ain trumpet touts,

Till a' the hills are rairin',
An' echoes back return the shouts :

Black Russell is na spairin':
His piercing words, like Highlan' swords,

Divide the joints an' marrow;
His talk o' Hell, whare devils dwell,
Our vera 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 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. Shakspeare's Hamlet.

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 hy 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' 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.

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