An' aft ye did your sire provoke,
By jest and jeer at better folk,
A' solemn thought wad end in smoke,
Sae wad his teachin',
And fun wad fly in jibe an' joke
At lang faced preachin'.
The mair they frowned, you joked the mair,
0' grave ye had a scanty share,
The verra text ya wadna spare,
Be't e'er sae holy,
An' rhymin' ower the pithy prayer
O' pious Willie
Aye' Rab, ye, rail it at me and mine,
Yet hungert after things divine,
I kenn'd how sairly ye wad pine,
For deeds ill done;
Ower talents lost, ower wasted time,
For sake o' fun
An' then remorse wi' pickled rod,
Wad gie' ye mony a lash an' prod,
But aye ye went the rantin' road,
An prone tae err,
You sair misca'd douce men o' God
An Holy Fair.
I winna say it is untrue
What's certified o' me by you,
If ilka ane their duty'd do
As quick an' weel,
As I, my certie! they'd get through,
Spite o' the De'il.
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