What signifies his barren shine,
     Of moral powers 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 poison’d nostrum;
     For Peebles,^5 frae the water-fit,
     Ascends the holy rostrum: 

     [Footnote 4:  Rev. George Smith of Galston.]

     [Footnote 5:  Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-upon-Ayr.]

     See, up he’s got, the word o’ God,
     An’ meek an’ mim has view’d it,
     While Common-sense has taen the road,
     An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate^6
     Fast, fast that day.

     Wee Miller^7 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, 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 cryin 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 lear,
     It pangs us fou o’ knowledge: 
     Be’t whisky-gill or penny wheep,
     Or ony stronger potion,
     It never fails, or 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: 

     [Footnote 6:  A street so called which faces the tent in
      Mauchline.—­R.  B.]

     [Footnote 7:  Rev. Alex.  Miller, afterward of Kilmaurs.]

     On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk,
     They’re makin observations;
     While some are cozie i’ the neuk,
     An’ forming assignations
     To meet some day.

     But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts,
     Till a’ the hills are rairin,
     And echoes back return the shouts;
     Black Russell is na sparin: 
     His piercin 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!