Macrae, as he
was most anxious to have some conversation with him. "Do you know,
sir," said this poor, ruined one, "that on the doctrine of future
punishment Mr. Macrae and I are in perfect accord, and I am very
desirous to tender him my cordial sympathy and support. I esteem it my
duty to do what I can to comfort and cheer this young and courageous
minister of the Gospel, in the cruel and unjust persecution to which
he is being subjected."
The Presbytery with one accord in one place,
Were met to consider and speak on the case
Of David Macrae, bent with reverend skill,
On putting him through th' ecclesiastical mill
I was there, I slipped out just the plain truth to tell,
To ha e a quate thinkin time a by mysel
On the new fangled doctrine o nae hell ava,
Which gies wrang doers comfort that is na sae sma'.
It's a gey soothm thoct aye, it pleases them weel,
Leavin hooseless an hameless the muckle black deil,
It delivers mankind frae a fear and a dread,
Sae I pondered along never lifting my head
Is it richt? is it wrang? is it truth or a lie?
We will cannily find oot the truth by and by
If it's truth or a lie that lies at the root
Should be shown when the doctrine grows up and bears fruit
Thus I daundered and pondered, on lifting my e'e
An answer to some o my thocts cam to me
There cam' doon the causey a comical chiel,
Wi an air an a gait that was unco genteel,
By the cut o' his jib an the set o his claes
He was ane o thae folk wha ha e seen better days,
He was verra lang legged hungry-lookup an lean,
His claes werna' new, nor weel hained nor clean,
Tight straps his short trews to meet shiny boots drew,
Where wee tae an' big tae alike keeked through,
His coat ance black braid-claith, was rusty enough,
It was oot at the elbows an' frayed at the cuff,
It was white at the seams, it was threadbare and thin
An' to hide a defects, buttoned up to the chin
Bruised and dinged in the crown and the brim was his hat,
But set jauntily on his few hairs for a that,
Paper collar an' cuffs showed in lieu of a shirt,
As he daintily picked his way over the dirt,
His face leaden and mottled with blossom that grows
Out of whisky, an' deep bottle-red was his nose;
His e'en bleared an' bloodshot, were watery an' dim,
Pale an' puffy the eyelids, an' red roun' the rim;
Thae e'en, that ha'e gotten a set in the head,
Wi' watchin' ower often the wine when it's red.
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