O _punctum temporis_ for action To a’ o’ the reformin’ faction, If yet, by ony act or paction, Thocht, word, or sermon, This dark an’ damnable transaction Micht yet determine! For see—as Doctor Begg explains— Hoo easy ’t’s düne! a pickle weans, Wha in the Hie Street gaither stanes By his instruction, The uncovenantit, pentit panes Ding to destruction. Up, Niven, or ower late—an’ dash Laigh in the glaur that carnal hash; Let spires and pews wi’ gran’ stramash Thegether fa’; The rumlin’ kist o’ whustles smash In pieces sma’. Noo choose ye out a walie hammer; About the knottit buttress clam’er; Alang the steep roof stoyt an’ stammer, A gate mis-chancy; On the aul’ spire, the bells’ hie cha’mer, Dance your bit dancie. Ding, devel, dunt, destroy, an’ ruin, Wi’ carnal stanes the square bestrewin’, Till your loud chaps frae Kyle to Fruin, Frae Hell to Heeven, Tell the guid wark that baith are doin’— Baith Begg an’ Niven. XII—THE SCOTSMAN’S RETURN FROM ABROAD In a letter from Mr. Thomson to Mr. Johnstone. IN mony a foreign pairt I’ve been, An’ mony an unco ferlie seen, Since, Mr. Johnstone, you and I Last walkit upon Cocklerye. Wi’ gleg, observant een, I pass’t By sea an’ land, through East an’ Wast, And still in ilka age an’ station Saw naething but abomination. In thir uncovenantit lands The gangrel Scot uplifts his hands At lack of a’ sectarian füsh’n, An’ cauld religious destitütion. He rins, puir man, frae place to place, Tries a’ their graceless means o’ grace, Preacher on preacher, kirk on kirk— This yin a stot an’ thon a stirk— A bletherin’ clan, no warth a preen, As bad as Smith of Aiberdeen! At last, across the weary faem, Frae far, outlandish pairts I came. On ilka side o’ me I fand Fresh tokens o’ my native land. Wi’ whatna joy I hailed them a’— The hilltaps standin’ raw by raw, The public house, the Hielan’ birks, And a’ the bonny U.P. kirks! But maistly thee, the bluid o’ Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to John o’ Grots, The king o’ drinks, as I conceive it, Talisker, Isla, or Glenlivet! For after years wi’ a pockmantie Frae Zanzibar to Alicante, In mony a fash and sair affliction I gie’t as my sincere conviction— Of a’ their foreign tricks an’ pliskies, I maist abominate their whiskies. Nae doot, themsel’s, they ken it weel, An’ wi’ a hash o’ leemon peel, And ice an’ siccan filth, they ettle The stawsome kind o’ goo to settle; Sic wersh apothecary’s broos wi’ As Scotsmen scorn to fyle their moo’s wi’.