O, what a parish, a terrible parish,

O, what a parish is that o' Dunkel',

They hangit their minister, droon'd their precentor

Dang doun the steeple, and fuddled the bell.

The steeple was doun, but the Kirk was still staunin',

They biggit a lum whaur the bell used to hang,

A stellpat they gat and they brewed Hieland whisky,

On Sundays they drank it, and ranted and sang.

O, had you but seen how graceful it lookit

To see the cramm'd pews sae socially join

Macdonald the piper stuck up in the poopit

He made the pipes skirl out music divine.

Wi' whisky and beer, they'd curse and they'd swear

They'd argy and fecht what ye daurna weel tell

'Bout Geordie and Cherlie they bothered fu' rarely

Wi' whisky they're worse than the devil himsel'.

When the heart-cheerin' spirit had mounted their garret

To a ball on the green they a' did adjourn

Maids wi' coats kilted, they steppit and liltit

When tired they shook hands, and then hame did return.

If the kirks a'owre Scotland held like social meetin's

Nae warning' ye'd need from a far-tinklin' bell

For a true love and friendship wad draw ye thegither

Far better than roarin' the horrors o' hell.