Here the guidman sall bide awee To dwall amang the deid; to see Auld faces clear in fancy's e'e; Belike to hear Auld voices fa'in saft an' slee On fancy's ear.
Thus, on the day o' solemn things, The bell that in the steeple swings To fauld a scaittered faim'ly rings Its walcome screed; An' just a wee thing nearer brings The quick an' deid.
But noo the bell is ringin' in; To tak their places, folk begin;
The minister himsel' will shüne Be up the gate, Filled fu' wi' clavers about sin An' man's estate.
The tünes are up—French, to be shüre, The faithfü' French, an' twa-three mair; The auld prezentor, hoastin' sair, Wales out the portions, An' yirks the tüne into the air Wi' queer contortions.