On lofty aiks the cushats wail, And Echo cons the doolfu’ tale; The lintwhites in the hazel braes, Delighted, rival ither’s lays: The craik amang the clover hay, The paitrick whirrin o’er the ley, The swallow jinkin round my shiel, Amuse me at my spinning-wheel.

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, oaks, pigeons And Echo cons the doolfu' tale; repeats, doleful The lintwhites in the hazel braes, linnets Delighted, rival ither's lays: The craik amang the claver hay, corn-crake, clover The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley. partridge, meadow The swallow jinkin' round my shiel, dodging, cot Amuse me at my spinnin'-wheel.

Ye'd think, to hear the lees they tell, The Sawbath day could mind itsel' Withoot a hand to rug the bell, Ye'd think the Reverend Paitrick Broun Could ca' the Bible up an' doon An' loup his lane in till his goon.

And when he came to the words, "And the publican, standing afar off, would not lift up so much as his eyes to heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me a sinner," once more the dying man stopped him: "That micht hae been written for me, Paitrick, or ony ither auld sinner that hes feenished his life, an' hes naething tae say for himsel."

It's the truth, Paitrick, but we 'ill gae on wi' our wark, far a'm failin' fast.