The prentit stanes that mark the deid, Wi' lengthened lip, the sarious read; Syne wag a moraleesin' heid, An' then an' there Their hirplin' practice an' their creed Try hard to square.
XIII
It's here our Merren lang has lain, A wee bewast the table-stane; An' yon's the grave o' Sandy Blane; An' further ower, The mither's brithers, dacent men! Lie a' the fower.
XIV
Here the guidman sall bide awee To dwall amang the deid; to see Auld faces clear in fancy's e'e; Belike to hear Auld voices fa'in saft an' slee On fancy's ear.
XV
Thus, on the day o' solemn things, The bell that in the steeple swings To fauld a scaittered faim'ly rings Its walcome screed; An' just a wee thing nearer brings The quick an' deid.
XVI
But noo the bell is ringin' in; To tak their places, folk begin; The minister himsel' will shüne Be up the gate, Filled fu' wi' clavers about sin An' man's estate.
XVII
The tünes are up —French, to be shüre, The faithfü' French, an' twa- three mair; The auld prezentor, hoastin' sair,
