’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,