I didnae speak,— I only snowkit up the reek. I was sae pleased therein to paidle, I sat an’ plowtered wi’ my ladle.

p. 121

An’ blithe was I, the morrow’s morn, To daunder through the stookit corn, And after a’ my strange mishanters, Sit doun amang my ain dissenters. An’, man, it was a joy to me The pu’pit an’ the pews to see, The pennies dirlin’ in the plate, The elders lookin’ on in state; An’ ’mang the first, as it befell, Wha should I see, sir, but yoursel’

I was, and I will no deny it, At the first gliff a hantle tryit p. 122To see yoursel’ in sic a station— It seemed a doubtfü’ dispensation. The feelin’ was a mere digression; For shüne I understood the session, An’ mindin’ Aiken an’ M‘Neil, I wondered they had düne sae weel. I saw I had mysel’ to blame; For had I but remained at hame, Aiblins—though no ava’ deservin’ ’t— They micht hae named your humble servant.

p. 122

The kirk was filled, the door was steeked; Up to the pu’pit ance I keeked; I was mair pleased than I can tell— It was the minister himsel’! Proud, proud was I to see his face, After sae lang awa’ frae grace. Pleased as I was, I’m no denyin’ Some maitters were not edifyin’; p. 123For first I fand—an’ here was news!— Mere hymn-books cockin’ in the pews— A humanised abomination, Unfit for ony congregation. Syne, while I still was on the tenter, I scunnered at the new prezentor; I thocht him gesterin’ an’ cauld— A sair declension frae the auld. Syne, as though a’ the faith was wreckit, The prayer was not what I’d exspeckit. Himsel’, as it appeared to me, Was no the man he üsed to be. But just as I was growin’ vext He waled a maist judeecious text, An’, launchin’ into his prelections, Swoopt, wi’ a skirl, on a’ defections.

p. 123

O what a gale was on my speerit To hear the p’ints o’ doctrine clearit, p. 124And a’ the horrors o’ damnation Set furth wi’ faithfü’ ministration! Nae shauchlin’ testimony here— We were a’ damned, an’ that was clear, I owned, wi’ gratitude an’ wonder, He was a pleisure to sit under.

p. 124

p. 125XIII

p. 125

Late in the nicht in bed I lay, The winds were at their weary play, An’ tirlin’ wa’s an’ skirlin’ wae Through Heev’n they battered;— On-ding o’ hail, on-blaff o’ spray, The tempest blattered.

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