But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts,
  Till a’ the hills are rairin,
  And echoes back return the shouts;
  Black Russell is na spairin: 
  His piercin words, like Highlan’ swords,
  Divide the joints an’ marrow;
  His talk o’ hell, whare devils dwell,
  Our verra ‘sauls does harrow’
  Wi’ fright that day!

  A vast, unbottomed, boundless pit,
  Filled fou o’ lowin brunstane,
  Whase 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 passed,
  An’ how they crouded to the yill,
  When they were a’ dismissed;
  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.

  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
  And gi’es them ’t, like a tether,
  Fu’ lang that day.

  Waesueks 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, w’ 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 monie hearts this day converts
  O’ sinners and o’ lasses! 
  Their hearts o’ stane, gin night, are gaen
  As saft as onie flesh is. 
  There’s some are fou o’ love divine,
  There’s some are fou o’ brandy;
  An’ monie jobs that day begin,
  May end in houghmagandie
  Some ither day.

  TO A LOUSE

  ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY’S BONNET AT CHURCH

  Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? 
  Your impudence protects you sairly;
  I canna say but ye strunt rarely
  Ower gauze and lace,
  Tho’, faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
  On sic a place,

  Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
  Detested, shunned by saunt an’ sinner,
  How daur ye set your fit upon her,
  Sae fine a lady! 
  Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner
  On some poor body.

  Swith! in some beggar’s hauffet squattle;
  There ye may creep and sprawl and sprattle
  Wi’ ither kindred jumping cattle,
  In shoals and nations,
  Whare horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle
  Your thick plantations.