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Now a'the congregation o'er
Is silent expectation :
Wi' tidings o' d-mn-tion.
'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'!
He's stampin an' he's jumpin'!
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.
On practice and on morals ;
A lift that day.
What signifies his barren shine,
Of moral pow'rs and reason ?
Are a' clean out o' season.
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.
Wee Miller, neist the guard relieves,
An' orthodoxy raibles,
An' thinks it auld wives' fables :
So, cannily he hums them;
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.
Or ony stronger potion,
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',
Black Russell is na spairin':
Divide the joints an' marrow;
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,
When they were a' dismist:
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,
The lasses they are shyer.
Frae side to side they bother,
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 wait the afternoon.
Till lasses strip their shoon:
For crack that day.