Robert Louis Stevenson

“ To rowst the slaw, their sides they bang; An' see! black coats a'ready thrang The green kirkyaird; And at the yett, the chestnuts spang That brocht the laird.
The solemn elders at the plate Stand drinkin' deep the pride o' state: The practised hands as gash an' great As Lords o' Session; The later named, a wee thing blate In their expression.
The prentit stanes that mark the deid, Wi' lengthened lip, the sarious read; Syne wag a moraleesin' heid, An' then an' there Their hirplin' practice an' their creed Try hard to square. ”

“ Wi' sappy unction, hoo he burkes The hopes o' men that trust in works, Expounds the fau'ts o' ither kirks, An' shaws the best o' them No muckle better than mere Turks, When a's confessed o' them.
XXIII
Bethankit! what a bonny creed! What mair would ony Christian need?— The braw words rumm'le ower his heid, Nor steer the sleeper; And in their restin' graves, the deid Sleep aye the deeper.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
It may be guessed by some that I had a certain parish in my eye, and this makes it proper I should add a word of disclamation. ”

“ Thus, on the day o' solemn things, The bell that in the steeple swings To fauld a scaittered faim'ly rings Its walcome screed; An' just a wee thing nearer brings The quick an' deid.
XVI
But noo the bell is ringin' in; To tak their places, folk begin; The minister himsel' will shüne Be up the gate, Filled fu' wi' clavers about sin An' man's estate.
XVII
The tünes are up—French, to be shüre, The faithfü' French, an' twa-three mair ”