Maw, Whit If He Ever Gets Oot? Poem by Anonymous British

'Way up in the far north o' Scotland,
Dressed up in his sporran and dirk,
Wee Sandy McGrime, for the very first time,
Was ta'en alang tae the kirk.
He gaped at the box kin' o' pulpit,
His moo near as roon' as the mune,
An' gripped at his Maw, as the beadle he saw,
A-lockin' the meenister in.
The time cam' for hearin' the sermon,
An' feart-like was wee Sandy's look,
As stoor fairly jumped, when the meenister thumped
An' pounded his nieves on the Book.
The guid man reached oot, an' he shouted
An' bellowed an ruffled his hair,
He cried and he craved and ranted and raved,
An' waggled his fists in the air.
Wee Sandy was shakin' wi' terror,
Fair frantic he looked roon' aboot,
'Oh, mither,' said he, 'wull we a' hae tae flee,
If ever that mannie gets oot?