Whiles seen on a hill-top, whiles lost in a vale,
Till they baith looked like motes on the welkin sae blue.
The minister by the road-side sat him down,
As vexed and as wearied as man weel could be;
Syne pu’d aff his wig, rubbed the sweat frae his crown,
And puffed, steghed, and graned like a man gaun to dee.
When an auld farmer carle, on his yaud trotting by,
Accosted Mess John as he sat in despair;
Made a bow like a corn-sack, and as he drew nigh,
Raised his twa waukit loofs, cryin’ “What brought ye there?