Here farmers gash, in ridin graith,
     Gaed hoddin by their cotters;
     There swankies young, in braw braid-claith,
     Are springing owre the gutters. 
     The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
     In silks an’ scarlets glitter;
     Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,
     An’ farls, bak’d wi’ butter,
     Fu’ crump that day.

     When by the plate we set our nose,
     Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence,
     A greedy glowr 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 dails, some chairs an’ stools,
     An’ some are busy bleth’rin
     Right loud that day.

     Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs,
     An’ screen our countra gentry;
     There Racer Jess,^2 an’ twa-three whores,
     Are blinkin at the entry. 
     Here sits a raw o’ tittlin jads,
     Wi’ heaving breast an’ bare neck;
     An’ there a batch o’ wabster lads,
     Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock,
     For fun this day.

     Here, some are thinkin 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’ screwed-up, grace-proud faces;
     On that a set o’ chaps, at watch,
     Thrang winkin on the lasses
     To chairs that day.

     O happy is that man, an’ blest! 
     Nae wonder that it pride him! 
     Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,
     Comes clinkin down beside him! 
     Wi’ arms repos’d on the chair back,
     He sweetly does compose him;
     Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
     An’s loof upon her bosom,
     Unkend that day.

     Now a’ the congregation o’er
     Is silent expectation;
     For Moodie^3 speels the holy door,
     Wi’ tidings o’ damnation: 

     [Footnote 2:  Racer Jess (d. 1813) was a half-witted daughter of
      Possie Nansie.  She was a great pedestrian.]

     [Footnote 3:  Rev. Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.]

     Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
     ‘Mang sons o’ God present him,
     The vera sight o’ Moodie’s face,
     To ’s ain het hame had sent him
     Wi’ fright that day.

     Hear how he clears the point o’ faith
     Wi’ rattlin and wi’ thumpin! 
     Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
     He’s stampin, an’ he’s jumpin! 
     His lengthen’d chin, his turned-up snout,
     His eldritch squeel an’ gestures,
     O how they fire the heart devout,
     Like cantharidian plaisters
     On sic a day!

     But hark! the tent has chang’d its voice,
     There’s peace an’ rest nae langer;
     For a’ the real judges rise,
     They canna sit for anger,
     Smith^4 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.