Page:Dominie depos'd.pdf/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 shou’d a’ their senses tine,

An’ fear o’ God.

’Tis strange what makes kirk-fouk sae 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 teaehteach [sic] 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 out the sa’tless sa’t

To the dunghill.

They are sae fed, they lie 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.