A greater Christ, a greater Burns, may come.
The maist they’ll dae is to gi’e bigger pegs
To folly and conceit to hank their rubbish on.
They’ll cheenge folks’ talk but no their natures, fegs!
I maun feed frae the common trough ana’
Whaur a’ the lees o’ hope are jumbled up;
While centuries like pigs are slorpin’ owre’t
Sall my wee ’oor be cryin’: “Let pass this cup?”
In wi’ your gruntle then, puir wheengin’ saul,
Lap up the ugsome aidle wi’ the lave,