That see him shake so fast his wartie fist,
As if he’d write the Sermon ’fore the Priest
Has spoke it; Then, O that I could (sayes one)
Doe but as this man does, I’de give a crowne.
Up goes another hand, up goe his eyes,
And he, Gifts, Industrie, and Talents cryes.
Thus are they plac’d at length: a tedious work.
And now a bellowing noise went round the Kirk,
From the low Font, up to the Golden Creed.
(O happy they who now no eares doe need!)