But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts, Till a’ the hills are rairin, And echoes back return the shouts; Black Russell is na sparin: His piercin words, like Highlan’ swords, Divide the joints an’ marrow; His talk o’ Hell, whare devils dwell, Our vera “sauls does harrow” Wi’ fright that day! A vast, unbottom’d, boundless pit, Fill’d fou o’ lowin brunstane, Whase raging flame, an’ scorching heat, Wad melt the hardest whun-stane! The half-asleep start up wi’ fear, An’ think they hear it roarin; When presently it does appear, ’Twas but some neibor snorin Asleep that day. ’Twad be owre lang a tale to tell, How mony stories past; An’ how they crouded to the yill, When they were a’ dismist; How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups, Amang the furms an’ benches; An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps, Was dealt about in lunches An’ dawds that day. In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife, An’ sits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife; The lasses they are shyer: The auld guidmen, about the grace Frae side to side they bother; Till some ane by his bonnet lays, An’ gies them’t like a tether, Fu’ lang that day. Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass, Or lasses that hae naething! Sma’ need has he to say a grace, Or melvie his braw claithing! O wives, be mindfu’ ance yoursel’ How bonie lads ye wanted; An’ dinna for a kebbuck-heel Let lasses be affronted On sic a day! Now Clinkumbell, wi’ rattlin tow, Begins to jow an’ croon; Some swagger hame the best they dow, Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies halt a blink, Till lasses strip their shoon: Wi’ faith an’ hope, an’ love an’ drink, They’re a’ in famous tune For crack that day. How mony hearts this day converts O’ sinners and o’ lasses! Their hearts o’ stane, gin night, are gane As saft as ony flesh is: There’s some are fou o’ love divine; There’s some are fou o’ brandy; An’ mony jobs that day begin, May end in houghmagandie Some ither day. Third Epistle To J. Lapraik Guid speed and furder to you, Johnie, Guid health, hale han’s, an’ weather bonie; Now, when ye’re nickin down fu’ cannie The staff o’ bread, May ye ne’er want a stoup o’ bran’y To clear your head. May Boreas never thresh your rigs, Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, Sendin the stuff o’er muirs an’ haggs Like drivin wrack; But may the tapmost grain that wags Come to the sack. I’m bizzie, too, an’ skelpin at it, But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it; Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it Wi’ muckle wark, An’ took my jocteleg an whatt it, Like ony clark.