Hollander, or Light Weight

In vain he pleads—appeals to God,
That scarce he lost an ounce;
The holy watcher o' the broad,
Cheeps out that he's a dunce.
Out frae the door he e'en maun come,
Right thankfu' gin he get
Some counterfeits, a scanty sum
Brought frae the aul' kirk yate,
Yon preachin' day.

O sirs! what conscience he contains,
What curse maun he be dreein';
Whase every day is marked wi' stains
O' cheatin' and o' leein'

M'K — —l, H—b, or trowther O—r,
May swear and seem to fash us,
But justice dignifies their door,
And gen'rously, they clash us
The clink each day.

Our Hollander, (gude help his soul)
Kens better ways o' workin',
For Jock and him has aft a spraul,
Wha'll bring the biggest dark in.
"Weel, Jock, what hast thou skrewt the day?"
"Deed father I'se no crack o't;
Nine holes, sax ounce, or there away,
Is a' that I cou'd mak o't
This live lang day."

Sic conversation aft takes place,
When darkness hides their logic;
Like Milton's Deil and Sin, they trace
For some new winning project:
Daft though they be, and unco gloits,
Yet they can count like scholars,
How farthings, multiplied by doits,
Grow up to pounds and dollars,
Some after day.

Forbye, to gie the deil his due,
I own, wi' biggest won'er,
That nane can sell their goods like you,
Or swear them up a hun'er.
Lang hacknied in the paths of vice,
Thy conscience nought can fear her;
And tens and twals can, in a trice,
Jump up twa hun'er far'er,
On ony day.

What town can thrive wi' sic a crew
Within its entrails crawlin',
Muck-worms, that must provoke a spew
To see or hear them squallin'!
Down on your knees, man, wife, and wean
For ance implore the deevil,
To haurl to himself his ain;
And free us frae sic evil,
This vera day.