His lengthened chin, his turned-up snout,

His eldritch squeel an' gestures, O how they fire the heart devoutLike 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 haflins-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

0' 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.

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.

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 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.

Now haud you there! ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right

Till ye've got on it,
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height

O' Miss's bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an' grey as onie grozet;
O for some rank, mercurial rozet

Or fell red smeddum!
I'd gie ye sic a hearty dose o't

Wad dress your droddum!

I wad na been surprised to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy,
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,

On's wyliecoat;
But Miss's fine Lunardi-fie!

How, daur ye do't!

O Jenny, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursèd speed

The blastie's makin!
Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread,

Are notice takin!

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,

An' foolish notion;
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,

An' ev'n devotion!