"Ye, for my sake, hae gier the feck

Of a' the ten commands

A screed some day

"My name is Fun your cronie dear

The nearest friend ye hae;

An' this is Superstition here,

An' that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to

Holy Fair,

To spend an hour in daffin;

Gin ye'll go thare, yon runkl'd pair,
We will get famous laughin'

At them this day."

VI.

Quoth I, "With a' my heart, I'll do't,
I'll get my Sunday sark on,
An' meet you on the holy spot:

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!”
Then I gaed hame at crowdie time,
An' soon I made me ready;

For roads were clad, frae side to side,
Wi' monie a weary body,

In droves that day.

vii.

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith,
Gaed hoddin by their cotters ;
There, swankies, young, in braw braid cloth,
Are springin' o'er the gutters;

The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
In silks an' scarlets glitter;

Wi sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang,

An' farls bak'd wi' butter

Fu' crump that day.

VIII.

When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,
A greedy glow'r 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 dales, some chairs an' stool,
And some are busy blethrin

Right loud that day.

IX.

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,
An' screen our countra gentry,
There racer Jess, an' twa-three wh-res,
Are blinkin at the entry;

Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades,

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck,
An' there a batch of wabster lads,
Blackguarding frae Kck,
For fun this day.

X.

Here some are thinking on their sins,
An' some upo' 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.

XI.

O happy is the man an' blest!
Nae wonder that it pride him!
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,

Comes clinkin down beside him!
Wï' 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,

Unkenn'd that day.

XII.

Now a' the congregation o'er

In silent expectation;

For

speels the holy door,

Wi' tidings o' damnation.

Should Hornie, as in ancient days,

'Mang sons o' G-d present him,

The very sight o'

's face,

To's ain het hame had sent him,

Wï' fright that day.

XIII.

Hear how he clears the points o' faith
Wi' rattlin an' wi' 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 and gestures,

O, how they fire the heart devout,
Like cantharidian plasters,
On sic a day.

XIV.

But hark!. the tent has chang'd its voice; There's peace an' rest na langer;

For a' the real judges rise,

They canna sit for anger.

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.

XV.

What signifies his barren shine,
Of moral pow'rs and 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

XVI.

In guid time comes an antidote Against the poison'd nostrum; frae the water-fit,

For

Ascends the holy rostrum.

Sae, up he's got the Word o' G-d,

An' meek an' mim has view'd it

While Common Sense has taen the road, An' aff, an, up _the_Cowgate,*

An' Orthodoxy raibles,

Tho' in his heart he weel believes,

An' thinks it auld wives' faibles;
But, faith! the birkie wants a manse,
So, cannily he hums them,
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense
Like hafflins ways o'ercomes him,
At times that day.

XVIII.

Now butt an' ben, the Change-house fille Wi' yill-caup Commentators;

Here's crying out for bakes and gills,

An' there the pint stowp clatters; While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, Wi' Logic, an' wi' Scripture, They raise a din that, in the end,

Is like to breed a rupture

O' wrath that day.

XIX.

Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair
Than either school or college;

It kindles wit, it waukens lair,
It pangs us fou o' knowledge:

* A street so called, which faces the tent in