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

Unkend that day.

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

For ****** speels the holy door,
Wi' tidings o' d-mn-t—n.
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
'Mang sons o' G-present him,
The vera sight o' *****'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' 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, O how they fire the heart devout, Like cantharidian plasters,

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.

***** 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 ****** frae the water-fit,
Ascends the holy rostrum:

See, up he's got the word o' G—,

An' meek an' mim has view'd it,

While Common Sense has ta'en the road,

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate2,

Fast, fast, that day.

A street so called, which faces the tent in .

Wee ****

niets, the guard relieves,

An' Orthodoxy raibles,

Tho' in his heart be weel believes,

An' thinks it auld wives' fables: But, faith the birkie wants à manse, So, cannily he hums them;

Altho' his carnal wit an' sense

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him
At times that day.

Now butt 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 soul 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 ****** is na spairin:
His piercing words, like highlan swords,
Divide the joints an' marrow;

His talk o' h-ll, where devils dwell,
Our vera sauls does harrow 3

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 crouded to the yill,
When they were a' dismist:

How drink gaed round, in cogs and caups,
Amang the furms an' benches;

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

An' dawds that day.

3 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 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 bonie 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 home, the best they dow,

Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,

Till lasses strip their shoon:

Wi' faith and hope, an' love an' drink,

They're a' in famous tune,

For crack that day.

How monie hearts this day converts

O' sinners and o' lasses!

Their hearts o' stane gin night are gane, As saft as ony flesh is.