Page:Beauties of Burn's poems.pdf/36

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On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
 Wi' screw'd-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 and blest,
 Nae wonder than it pride him,
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best,
 Comes clinkin down beside him.
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back,
 He sweetly does compose him,
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
 And's loof's upon her bosom
Unkend that day.

Now a' the congregation o'er
 Is silent expectation,
For ——— speels the holy door,
 Wi' tidings o' d—m—n—n!
Shou'd Hornie, as in ancient days,
 'Mang sons of 'G— present him,
The very sight o' ———'s face
 To's ain het hame had sent him
Wi' fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o' faith,
 Wi' rattlin and wi' thumpin!
Now meekly calm,—now mild in wrath,
 He's stampin and he's jumpin!
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout
 His eldritch squeel and gestures,
Oh! how they fire the heart devout,
 Like cantharidian plaisters,
On sic a day.

But hark! the tent hes chang'd its voice,
 There's peace and rest nae langer;