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 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 lengthened chin, his turned-up snout,
  His eldritch squeel an’ gestures,
  O how they fire the heart devout—­
  Like cantharidian plaisters,
  On sic a day!

  But hark! the tent has changed 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 poisoned 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 viewed it,
  While Common Sense has taen the road,
  An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate
  Fast, fast that day.

  Wee Miller niest 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,

  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 gies us mair
  Than either school or college;
  It kindles wit, it waukens lear,
  It pangs us fou o’ knowledge. 
  Be ’t whisky-gill or penny-wheep,
  Or onie 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 cozie i’ the neuk,
  An’ formin assignations
  To meet some day.