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

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Consider, sirs, now this his crime, 'Tis no like hers, or yours, or thine, 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 sa ſtupit, To mak or meddle wi' the fuca'it, Or mint to preach in sic a pu'pit, 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 sunk.

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

They are sae fed, they ly ſae saft, They are sae 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.