Page:Dominie depos'd, or, Some reflections on his intrigue with a young lass.pdf/16

( 16 ) Conſider, ſirs, now this his crime, 'Tis no like hers or yours or mine, He's juſt next thing to a divine, An' wow, 'tis odd, Sic men should a' their ſenſes tine, An' fear o' God.

'Tis ſtrange what maks kirk fouk fae ſtupid, To mak or meddle wi' the ſuca'it, Or mint to preach in ſic a pulpit, The ſenſeleſs fools, Far better for them hunt the tyouchet, Or teach their ſchools.

They hunt about frae houſe to houſe, Juſt as a taylor hunts a louſe, Still girding at the barley juice, An' aft get drunk, They plump into ſome open ſluice, Where a' is funk.

A plague upo' that oil o' ma't, That weary drink is a' their fault, It made our Dominie to hau't, The text fulfil, Which bids caſt out the fa'tleſs fa't On the dunghill.

They are fae fed, they ly fae faſt, They are fae hain'd, they grow ſae daft, This breeds ill wiles, ye ken, fu' aft, In the black coat, Till poor Meſs John, an' the prieſt craft, Gaes ti' the pot.