Himsel', meanwhile, frae whaur he cocks An' bobs belaw the soundin'-box, The treesures of his words unlocks Wi' prodigality, An' deals some unco dingin' knocks To infidality.
Wi' sappy unction, hoo he burkes The hopes o' men that trust in works, Expounds the fau'ts o' ither kirks, An' shaws the best o' them No muckle better than mere Turks, When a's confessed o' them. Bethankit! what a bonny creed! What mair would ony Christian need?—
The braw words rumm'le ower his heid, Nor steer the sleeper;
And in their restin' graves, the deid Sleep aye the deeper.
