There cam a man to oor toon-en',
An' a waesome carl was he;
Wi' a snubbert nose, an' a crookit mou',
An' a cock in his left ee.
And muckle he spied, and muckle he spak';
But the burden o' his sang
Was aye the same, and ower again:
There's nane o' ye a' but's wrang.
Ye're a' wrang, and a' wrang,
And a'thegither a' wrang;
There's no a man aboot the town,
But's a'thegither a' wrang.
That's no the gait to bake the breid,
Nor yet to brew the yill;
That's no the gait to haud the pleuch,
Nor yet to ca the mill.
That's no the gait to milk the coo,
Nor yet to spean the calf;
Nor yet to fill the girnel-kist--
Ye kenna yer wark by half.
Ye're a' wrang, &c.
The minister was na fit to pray,
And lat alane to preach;
He nowther had the gift o' grace,
Nor yet the gift o' speech.
He mind 't him o' Balaam's ass,
Wi' a differ ye may ken:
The Lord he open'd the ass's mou'
The minister open'd 's ain.
He's a' wrang, &c.
The puir precentor cudna sing,
He gruntit like a swine;
The verra elders cudna pass
The ladles till his min'.
And for the rulin' elder's grace,
It wasna worth a horn;
He didna half uncurse the meat,
Nor pray for mair the morn.
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