Wi monie a weary body,

In droves that day.

Here farmers gash, in ridin graith,

Gaed hoddin by their cotters;

There swankies young, in braw braid-claith,

Are springin owre the gutters.

The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,

In silks an scarlets glitter;

Wi sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang,

An farls, bakd wi butter,

Fu crump that day.

When by the plate we set our nose,

Weel heaped up wi ha’pence,

A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws,

An we maun draw our tippence.

Then in we go to see the show:

On ev’ry side they’re gath’rin,

Some carrying dails, some chairs an stools,

An some are busy bleth’rin

Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs,

An screen our countra gentry:

There Racer Jess, an twa-three whores,

Are blinkin at the entry.

Here sits a raw o tittlin jads,

Wi heavin breasts an bare neck;

An there a batch o wabster lads,

Blackguardin frae Kilmarnock,

For fun this day.

Here some are thinkin on their sins,

An some upon, their claes;

Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins,

Anither sighs an prays:

On this hand sits a chosen swatch,

Wi screw’d-up, grace-proud faces;

On that a set o chaps, at watch,

Thrang winkin on the lasses

To chairs that day.

O happy is that man, an blest!

Nae wonder that it pride him!

Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,

Comes clinkin down beside him!

Wi arm repos’d on the chair back,

He sweetly does compose him;

Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,

An’s loof upon her bosom,

Unkend that day.

Now a’ the congregation oer

Is silent expectation:

For Moodie speels the holy door,

Wi tidings o damnation:

Should Hornie, as in ancient days,

’Mang sons o God present him,

The vera sight o Moodie’s face,

To’s ain het hame had sent him

Wi fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o Faith

Wi rattlin an thumpin!

Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,

He’s stampin, an he’s jumpin!

His lengthen’d chin, his turn’d-up snout,

His eldritch squeel an gestures,

O how they fire the heart devout,

Like cantharidian plaisters

On sic a day!

But hark! the tent has chang’d its voice;

There’s peace an rest nae langer;

For a’ the real judges rise,

They canna sit for anger,

Smith opens out his cauld harangues,

On practice and on morals;

An aff the godly pour in thrangs,

To gie the jars an barrels

A lift that day.

What signifies his barren shine,

Of moral powers an reason?

His English style, an gesture fine

Are a’ clean out o season.

Like Socrates or Antonine,

Or some auld pagan heathen,

The moral man he does define,

But ne’er a word o faith in

That’s right that day.

In guid time comes an antidote

Against sic poison’d nostrum;

For Peebles, frae the water-fit,

Ascends the holy rostrum:

See, up he’s got the word o God,

An meek an mim has view’d it,

While Common-sense has taen the road