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The cushle mushle thus gaed roun’, Our bonny Clark, He’ll get the dud an’ sarken gown. That ugly sark.

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

’Tis strange what mak’s kirk folk 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 tyouchot, Or teach their schools.

They hunt about frae house to house, Just as a tailor 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 hal’t; The text fulfil, Which bids cast out the sa’rless sa’t. On the dunghill.