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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, and the priest-craft, Gaes to the pot.

I tald them then, it was but wicked To add affliction to the afflicted. But to it they were sae addicted, They said therefore : The clout about me should be pricked, At the kirk-door.

But yet not kirk nor consterie, Quoth they, can ask the taudy fee, Tell them in words just twa or three, The deil a plack, For tarry-breeks should ay gae free, An’ he’s the Clark.

I then was dumb ! how I was griev’d ! What would I gi’en to be reliev’d! They us’d me waur than I had thiev’d, Some strain’d their lungs, An’ very loud they me mischiev’d Wi’ their ill tongues.

Had you been there to hear and see The manner how they guided me, An' greater penance wha could dree ! A Lettergae, Wi’ sic a pack confin’d to be, On gude Yule-day.