A Robert Burns Poem

AE day, as Death, that gruesome carl,
Was driving to the tither warl’
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad -
Black gowns of each denomination,
And thieves of every rank and station,
From him that wears the star and garter,
To him that wintles in a halter:
Ashamed himself to see the wretches,
He mutters, glowrin at the bitches,
“By G - d I’ll not be seen behint them,
Nor ’mang the sp’ritual core present them,
Without, at least, ae honest man,
To grace this d - d infernal clan!”
By Adamhill a glance he threw,
“L - d G - d!” quoth he, “I have it now;
There’s just the man I want, i’ faith!”
And quickly stoppit Rankine’s breath.