When Charles the Second wish'd to climb'd the throne,
Duke Hamilton stepp'd forth to help him on;
But fail'd, and lost his head. Ah, woeful view!
His aiders were proscrib'd, and suffer'd too.

'Squire Gordon, Lord of Feckill, must come forth,
To face the Presbyt'ry, and feel their wrath.
Unhappy case, alas! What man can stand
Against a troop well arm'd--he single-hand?

Sentenc'd to lose his chattels; or appear
At Kirk, in sack-cloth, and do penance there--
'The penance I'll submit to--cloth will warm;
But I and goods turn'd out shall meet with harm.'

Gown of coarse horse-cloth he procur'd with speed--
His legs put in the sleeves; tail o'er his head.
You'd really think, should you this figure meet,
A Russian bear was strutting on two feet.
Now standing at the porch, gave some sly lears
To all who pass'd--'Sir, Ma'am, I beg your prayers.'

The Presbyt'ry appriz'd, pronounc'd him vain;
And, in sheer anger, summon'd him again.
The culprit made appearance in his gown,
And met the Reverend Fathers, and their frown.

'To passengers you practis'd foul grimace;
Shew'd many a face, but not your own true face.
Who can such vile impiety rehearse?
You turn the solemn penance into farce.'

'To wear the gown your sentence seem'd to be;
But how to wear it, that was left to me.
When your turn comes to wear a rug like this,
Wear it yourselves whatever way you please.'
The penance o'er, the Sexton came with glee--
'The robe demanded as his ancient fee.'

'Nay, hold my friend, it can't belong to you;
My horse was guilty--he shall wear it too.'