Eh, me, sirs! what wreck in the universe can
Be sae awsome to see as the wreck of a man!
Whatever of talents, or good looks, or gear,
What w'alth o' good chances had been this man's here;
What gifts that might make his life lofty and grand,
A blessin' to others, a power in the land.
All was gone, gifts an' graces, the greatest, the least,
Were hidden beneath the broad mark o' the beast--
Stamped on, I may say, frae the head to the feet,
All lost of the man but his pride an' conceit;
Varnished ower wi' the airs o' the shabby genteel,
He was gingerly steppin' his way to the diel.
But now he is gaun to greet me on the way
Comin' forrid as ane that has something to say.
Takin' off wi' a flourish the bit o' a hat,
He booed wi' an air maist genteel ower that;
"Excuse me, sir, stoppin' you thus on the way,
Can you bring me to where I'll see David Macrae?
He's a preacher that men of my culture must choose;
I assure you he holds and he preaches my views;
A doctrine divested of all vulgar fears,
That I've held and believed in for years upon years.
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