PART III.
Now Maggy’s twasome in a swoon,
A counsel held condemns the loon,
The cushle mushle thus gaed roun’,
Our bonny Clark,
He’ll get the dud an’ sarken gown,
That ugly sark.
Consider, sirs, now this his crime,
’Tis no like hers, or yours, or mine,
He’s just next thing to a divine,
An’ vow, ’tis odd,
Sic men should a’ their senses tine,
An’ fear o’ God.
’Tis strange what mak’s kirk folk sae stupit,
To mak or meddle wi’ the fuca’it,
Or mint to preach in sic a pu’pit,
The senseless fools,
Far better for them hunt the tyouchot,
Or teach their schools.
They hunt about frae house to house,
Just as a tailor hunts a louse,
Still girding at the barley-juice
An’ aft get drunk,
They plump into some open sluice,
Where a’ is sunk.
A plague upo’ that oil o’ ma’t,
That weary drink is a’ their fau’t,
It made our Dominie to hal’t;
The text fulfil,
Which bids cast out the sa’rless sa’t,
On the dunghill.
They are sae fed, they lie sae saft,
They are sae hain’d, they grow sae daft;
This breeds ill wiles, ye ken fu’ aft
In the black coat,
Till poor Mess John, and the priest-craft,
Gaes to the pot.
I tald them then, it was but wicked
To add affliction to the afflicted,
But to it they were sae addicted,
They said therefore,
The clout about me should be pricked,
At the kirk-door.
But yet not kirk nor consterie,
Quoth they, can ask the taudy fee,
Tell them in words just twa or three,
The deil a plack,
For tarry-breeks should ay gae free,
An’ he’s the Clark.
I then was dumb! how I was griev’d!
What would I gi’en to be reliev’d!
They us’d me waur than I had thiev’d,
Some strain’d their lungs,
An’ very loud they me mischiev’d
Wi’ their ill tongues.
Had you been there to hear and see
The manner how they guided me,
An’ greater penance wha could dree!
A Lettergae,
Wi’ sic a pack confin’d to be,
On gude Yule-day.
Young Jack wi’ skirls he pierc’d the skies,
I pray’d that death might close his eyes,
But did not meet with that surprise,
To my regret,
Sae had nae help, but up an’ cries
Het drinks to get.
This laid their din; the drink was stale,
An’ to’t they gaed wi’ tooth an’ nail,
An’ wives whase rotten tusks did fail
Wi’ bread an’ cheese,
They birl’d fu’ fast at butter’d ale,
To gie them ease.
They ca’ upon me, then dadda,
Come, tune your fiddle, play us a
Jigg or hornpipe, nae mair SOL FA,
My bonny cock;
The kirk an’ you maun pluck a craw
About young Jock.
Play up, Sae merry as we hae been,
Or, Wat ye wha we met yestreen,
Or, Lass will ye lend me your leam?
Or, Soups o’ brandy,
Or, Gin the kirk wad let’s alane,
Or, Houghmagandy.
Sic tunes as these, yea, three or four,
They call’d for, ill mat they cour,
Play, cries the cummer, wi’ a glour,
The wanton toudy,
Wha’ did the Dominie ding o’er,
Just heels o’er goudy.
O’ music I had little skill,
But as I could, I played my fill,
It was my best to shaw good will;
Yet a’ my drift,
Was best how I might win the hill
The wives to shift.
Sae leaving them to drink het ale,
I slipt awa’, an’ let them rail:
Then running till my breath did fail,
I was right glad
Frae kirk and wives to tak’ leg bail,—
Nae doubt they said.
The Lettergae has plaid the fool,
And shifted the repenting-stool.
To kirk and session bids good-day,
He’ll o’er the hills and far away.