fu' fast this day.

lang, patronage, with rod o' airn,

has shor'd the kirk's undoin;

astely fenwick, sair forfairn,

has proven to its ruin:

our patron, honest man! glencairn,

he saw mischief was brewin;

an' like a godly, elect bairn,

he's waled us out a true ane,

and sound, this day.

now robertson harangue nae mair,

but steek your gab for ever;

or try the wicked town of ayr,

for there they'll think you clever;

or, nae reflection on your lear,

ye may mence a shaver;

or to the herton repair,

an' turn a carpet weaver

aff-hand this day.

mu'trie and you were just a match,

we never had sic twa drones;

auld hornie did theigh kirk watch,

just like a winkin baudrons,

and aye he catch'd the tither wretch,

to fry them in his caudrons;

but now his honour maun detach,

wi' a' his brimstone squadrons,

fast, fast this day.

see, see auld orthodoxy's faes

she's swingein thro' the city!

hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she ys!

i vow it's unco pretty:

there, learning, with his greekish face,

grunts out sometin ditty;

and mon-sense is gaun, she says,

to mak to jamie beattie

her int this day.

but there's morality himsel',

embracing all opinions;

hear, how he gies the tither yell,

between his twa panions!

see, how she peels the skin an' fell,

as ane were peelin onions!

now there, they're packed aff to hell,

an' banish'd our dominions,

henceforth this day.

o happy day! rejoice, rejoice!

e bouse about the porter!

morality's demure decoys

shall here nae mair find quarter:

mackiy, russell, are the boys

that heresy can torture;

they'll gie her on a rape a hoyse,

and cowe her measure shorter

by th' head some day.

e, bring the tither mutchkin in,

and here's—for a conclusion—

to ev'ry new light mother's son,

from this time forth, confusion!

if mair they deave us wi' their din,

or patronage intrusion,

we'll light a spunk, and ev'ry skin,

we'll rin them aff in fusion

like oil, some day.