T HERE'S an unco fracas in the Churches,
And the cheeks o' the faithfu' grow pale
At the odour of heterodoxy
That's floating aboot on the gale,
Ye preachers wha, rivin' and tearin',
Are seeking tae widen yer claith,
Even tho' ye may tak' oor Confession,
We pray ye tae leave us oor faith.
The faith ye ha'e vow'ed to uphold —
The faith that is better than gold;
Without it the heart is an altar,
That's lifeless, and fireless, and cold.
If Germany sends us her legions,
Tae sap out the life o' oor creed;
Tae leave us nae staff tae lean on
For strength in the hour o' oor need —
For, wae's me, her rational tenets
Are just but religion's puir wraith;
A thoosand times nobler and better
Is Scotland's Confession o' Faith.
A thing sae unlovely, unblest,
A corpse that's in finery dress'd;
And when we go near to embrace it
We find it in deadness confess'd.
Ah, weel, if she sends us her legions
Tae sap out oor beautifu' creed,
'Twould be better by far if she sent us
Her Uhlans our country tae bleed.
Her daughters are peripatetics,
That dance frae their birth to their death,
And no like the douce wives and maidens
Taught frae the Confession o' Faith.
Although they are comely and kind,
Among them I never could find
The thocht o' oor ain Scottish woman,
Nor sic a backbane tae the mind.
Like Germany dinna ye mak' us,
A land without Sabbath or creed,
A land where the churches are empty —
Wha lives but for pleasure is deid.
Tho' stern was the mother that rear'd us,
Tae mak' her mair saft I'd be laith;
We love her in all her auld grandeur,
Wi' even her Confession o' Faith.
Ye sons o' auld Scotland sae grave,
Oh, dinna ye be like the lave,
Like bairnies, delighted wi' gimcracks,
And cowries from over the wave.
In the auld Scottish ship there's a captain
Wha lives awa doon by Roseneath,
Wha for fallen humanity's haffets
Has woven sae bonnie a wreath;
Croon'd wi't tae the bar o' oor conscience,
Confession and Bible come baith;
What we see we believe, and nae mair o't,
And sing the death wail o' oor faith.
O captain, you've sailed in a fog,
And wrang things are doon in your log,
That maist wad mak tars like me wonder
If e'er ye mak free wi' your grog.
His compass he should get adjusted,
As he lives sae near the Gareloch,
Or else, his auld ship may get wreckit
Ere he loses sight o' the Cloch.
For there's shoals aye and rocks under water
That may work his craft muckle scaith,
Tho' naebody ever has seen them,
But only received them wi' faith.
And besides, the auld ship ance sae braw,
I fear me is wearin' awa,
For Plimsoll declares her a coffin,
Altho' they've repaired her and a'
On the banks o' the Clyde there is Dauvid,
Wha is without doubt a big gun,
Maybe no just sae muckle at preachin'
As laughin', romancin', and fun.
Ance bravely he hunted the Hydra,
That workit the drouthie folk scaith;
Noo, wae's me, he levels his lance
At his faither's Confession o' Faith.
But he is among the U.P.'s —
Wha arena' sae strict as the Frees —
Where a' body seems to be licensed
Tae weave their ain web as they please.
There's ane that wrought hard in a smiddy,
Awa up in gay Bon Accord,
Wha clured the bricht croon o' auld Moses,
And hammered awa at his sword.
I ken ye hae lear, sir, and knowledge;
But hech, sirs, and were ye na laith,
Tae blaw wi' you're bellows sic sparks up,
Tae burn oot the laity's faith.
I fear me, guid Smith, your na strong,
And, aiblins, they were in the wrong
Wha placed the big hammer sae early
In hands o' a callant sae young.
I've seen a bit bairn in a temper,
And he'd have nae toy but the moon,
And surely you, sir, were as foolish,
When you took to cluring this croon,
For there's wark for a strong honest workman,
That's nobler and guidlier baith,
In making the armour for heroes,
Wha fight wi' the foes o' oor faith.
Gude Smith, put this nonsense aside,
And let whatsoever betide,
In the glow o' the bush that was burning,
In peace and in safety abide.
Yestreen, I confess, in the morning
My heart was all gruesome and cauld,
When I thocht that e'en some o' the fathers
Wad tak' this new wine for the auld.
But the cry was there's death in the chalice,
And keeping still spotless their claith;
They rallied around oor dear Bible
And kept us oor beautiful faith.
Hurrah for the gallant and true,
The faith ever auld ever new,
Wave o'er covenanting auld Scotland
Thou banner sae bonnie and blue!
And the cheeks o' the faithfu' grow pale
At the odour of heterodoxy
That's floating aboot on the gale,
Ye preachers wha, rivin' and tearin',
Are seeking tae widen yer claith,
Even tho' ye may tak' oor Confession,
We pray ye tae leave us oor faith.
The faith ye ha'e vow'ed to uphold —
The faith that is better than gold;
Without it the heart is an altar,
That's lifeless, and fireless, and cold.
If Germany sends us her legions,
Tae sap out the life o' oor creed;
Tae leave us nae staff tae lean on
For strength in the hour o' oor need —
For, wae's me, her rational tenets
Are just but religion's puir wraith;
A thoosand times nobler and better
Is Scotland's Confession o' Faith.
A thing sae unlovely, unblest,
A corpse that's in finery dress'd;
And when we go near to embrace it
We find it in deadness confess'd.
Ah, weel, if she sends us her legions
Tae sap out oor beautifu' creed,
'Twould be better by far if she sent us
Her Uhlans our country tae bleed.
Her daughters are peripatetics,
That dance frae their birth to their death,
And no like the douce wives and maidens
Taught frae the Confession o' Faith.
Although they are comely and kind,
Among them I never could find
The thocht o' oor ain Scottish woman,
Nor sic a backbane tae the mind.
Like Germany dinna ye mak' us,
A land without Sabbath or creed,
A land where the churches are empty —
Wha lives but for pleasure is deid.
Tho' stern was the mother that rear'd us,
Tae mak' her mair saft I'd be laith;
We love her in all her auld grandeur,
Wi' even her Confession o' Faith.
Ye sons o' auld Scotland sae grave,
Oh, dinna ye be like the lave,
Like bairnies, delighted wi' gimcracks,
And cowries from over the wave.
In the auld Scottish ship there's a captain
Wha lives awa doon by Roseneath,
Wha for fallen humanity's haffets
Has woven sae bonnie a wreath;
Croon'd wi't tae the bar o' oor conscience,
Confession and Bible come baith;
What we see we believe, and nae mair o't,
And sing the death wail o' oor faith.
O captain, you've sailed in a fog,
And wrang things are doon in your log,
That maist wad mak tars like me wonder
If e'er ye mak free wi' your grog.
His compass he should get adjusted,
As he lives sae near the Gareloch,
Or else, his auld ship may get wreckit
Ere he loses sight o' the Cloch.
For there's shoals aye and rocks under water
That may work his craft muckle scaith,
Tho' naebody ever has seen them,
But only received them wi' faith.
And besides, the auld ship ance sae braw,
I fear me is wearin' awa,
For Plimsoll declares her a coffin,
Altho' they've repaired her and a'
On the banks o' the Clyde there is Dauvid,
Wha is without doubt a big gun,
Maybe no just sae muckle at preachin'
As laughin', romancin', and fun.
Ance bravely he hunted the Hydra,
That workit the drouthie folk scaith;
Noo, wae's me, he levels his lance
At his faither's Confession o' Faith.
But he is among the U.P.'s —
Wha arena' sae strict as the Frees —
Where a' body seems to be licensed
Tae weave their ain web as they please.
There's ane that wrought hard in a smiddy,
Awa up in gay Bon Accord,
Wha clured the bricht croon o' auld Moses,
And hammered awa at his sword.
I ken ye hae lear, sir, and knowledge;
But hech, sirs, and were ye na laith,
Tae blaw wi' you're bellows sic sparks up,
Tae burn oot the laity's faith.
I fear me, guid Smith, your na strong,
And, aiblins, they were in the wrong
Wha placed the big hammer sae early
In hands o' a callant sae young.
I've seen a bit bairn in a temper,
And he'd have nae toy but the moon,
And surely you, sir, were as foolish,
When you took to cluring this croon,
For there's wark for a strong honest workman,
That's nobler and guidlier baith,
In making the armour for heroes,
Wha fight wi' the foes o' oor faith.
Gude Smith, put this nonsense aside,
And let whatsoever betide,
In the glow o' the bush that was burning,
In peace and in safety abide.
Yestreen, I confess, in the morning
My heart was all gruesome and cauld,
When I thocht that e'en some o' the fathers
Wad tak' this new wine for the auld.
But the cry was there's death in the chalice,
And keeping still spotless their claith;
They rallied around oor dear Bible
And kept us oor beautiful faith.
Hurrah for the gallant and true,
The faith ever auld ever new,
Wave o'er covenanting auld Scotland
Thou banner sae bonnie and blue!