His lengthen'd chin, his turned-up snout,
His eldritch squeal an' gestures, [weird]
O how they fire the heart devout,
Like cantharidian plaisters,
On sic a day! [such]

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 opens out his cauld harangues, [A New Light]
On practice and on morals;
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs
To gie the jars an' barrels [give]
A lift that day.

What signifies his barren shine
Of moral pow'rs an' reason?
His English style an' gesture fine
Are a' clean out o' season.
Like Socrates or Antonine,
Or some auld pagan Heathen,
The moral man he does define,
But ne'er a word o' faith in
That's right that day.

In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison'd nostrum;
For Peebles, frae the water-fit, [river-mouth]
Ascends the holy rostrum: