The lasses, clean frae tap to taes, Are busked in crunklin’ underclaes; The gartened hose, the weel-filled stays, The nakit shift, A’ bleached on bonny greens for days, An’ white’s the drift. VI An’ noo to face the kirkward mile The guidman’s hat o’ dacent style, The blackit shoon, we noon maun fyle As white’s the miller: A waefü’ peety tae, to spile The warth o’ siller. VII Our Marg’et, aye sae keen to crack, Douce-stappin’ in the stoury track, Her emeralt goun a’ kiltit back Frae snawy coats, White-ankled, leads the kirkward pack Wi’ Dauvit Groats. VIII A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks, A’ spiled wi’ lyin’ by for weeks, The guidman follows closs, an’ cleiks The sonsie misses; His sarious face at aince bespeaks The day that this is. IX And aye an’ while we nearer draw To whaur the kirkton lies alaw, Mair neebours, comin’ saft an’ slaw Frae here an’ there, The thicker thrang the gate, an’ caw The stour in air. X But hark! the bells frae nearer clang To rowst the slaw, their sides they bang An’ see! black coats a’ready thrang The green kirkyaird; And at the yett, the chestnuts spang That brocht the laird. XI The solemn elders at the plate Stand drinkin’ deep the pride o’ state: The practised hands as gash an’ great As Lords o’ Session; The later named, a wee thing blate In their expression. XII The prentit stanes that mark the deid, Wi’ lengthened lip, the sarious read; Syne way a moraleesin’ heid, An then an’ there Their hirplin’ practice an’ their creed Try hard to square. XIII It’s here our Merren lang has lain, A wee bewast the table-stane; An’ yon’s the grave o’ Sandy Blane; An’ further ower, The mither’s brithers, dacent men! Lie a’ the fower. XIV Here the guidman sall bide awee To dwall amang the deid; to see Auld faces clear in fancy’s e’e; Belike to hear Auld voices fa’in saft an’ slee On fancy’s ear. XV Thus, on the day o’ solemn things, The bell that in the steeple swings To fauld a scaittered faim’ly rings Its walcome screed; An’ just a wee thing nearer brings The quick an’ deid. XVI But noo the bell is ringin’ in; To tak their places, folk begin; The minister himsel’ will shüne Be up the gate, Filled fu’ wi’ clavers about sin An’ man’s estate. XVII The tünes are up—_French_, to be shüre, The faithfü’ _French_, an’ twa-three mair; The auld prezentor, hoastin’ sair, Wales out the portions, An’ yirks the tüne into the air Wi’ queer contortions. XVIII