Preachin's his trade, same way as millin's mine.
I' trade you've got to gie fowks what they want,
An' that is mostly sawcum(4) meshed reet fine.

Tak squire theer; he don't want no talk o' Hell,
He likes to hark to t' parable o' t' teares ;
He reckons church is wheat that's gooid to sell,
But chapil's nobbut kexes,(5) thorns, an' brears.

Squire's lasses, they can't do wi' t' Blooid o' t' Lamb
They're all for t' blooid o' t' foxes, like our Bob.
The Lord Hissen will have to save or damn
Church fowks wid out me mellin' on(6) His job.

But gie me chapil lasses gone astray,
Or lads that cooms home druffen of a neet,
An' I'll raise Cain afore I go away,
If I don't gie 'em t' glent o' t' Gospil leet.

I'll mak 'em sit on t' penitential stooils,
An' roar as loud as t' buzzer down at t' mill;
I'll mak 'em own that they've bin despert fooils,
Wi' all their pride o' life a bitter pill.

I've mony texts, but all to one point keep,
Same as all t' becks flow down to one saut sea:
Damnation an' salvation, goats an' sheep--
That's t' Bible gospil that thou'll get thro' me.