Twa peaks o' prayer, Kate Wabster's hauns are pyntit
Her heid's held heich — bit the blessin o' God is tint
An fa'd hae thocht, as ane o the Lord's annointed
She'd tyne her sense, fur a chief she sudna wint?

The congregation's bummin a haly note.
Bit the tune Kate Wabster croons, is nae o' Grace
She's singin the wirds bi lip; they're anely rote
Fur she canna clear her throat, bit she minds his face.

The mou o' the kirk is wide, the pews are thrangin
The Sabbath fowk are scalin agin the sun
An Kate sud turn the snib on her eeseless langin
Cast oot like Lucifer, on the guilty grun
Fur Deil the thing she's heard, o' the kirk bell clangin
An ilkie hymn she sang, wis a Hoolachan.

Bit hyne an awa, the thocht o him's her salvation
Tho' the hale jing-bang o' the warld sud caa it wrang
An deep in her hairt, he's keepit, a consummation
Far the kirk an its condemnation canna gang.