Thus auld an’ young their verdict had, ’Bout Maggy’s being brought to bed, I thought my fill, yet little said, Or had to say, To reap the fruit o’ sic a trade, On gude-yule day. _What sometimes in the mou’ is sweet, Turns bitter in the wame; I grumbled sair to get the geet, At sic a merry time._ PART III. Now Maggy’s twasome in a swoon, A counsel held condemns the loon, 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. 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.