Dear freens, my mind reverts jist noo
Tae hallow’d times lang past,
Whun Mr. Moody, o’ the Pund,
Saw’d Gospel seed braid-cast.

A humble, faithfoo, godly man,
Without yin blot ur stain;
His memory sacred in oor hearts
Fur iver shal’ remain.

His acts o’ cherity endear’d
Him tae al’ those in need;
His demise a lose keen felt,
For this an ivery creed.

In fancy I can hear him still
Proclaimin’ lood the truth,
An’ see his face an’ manly form
Sae fresh an’ foo o’ youth.

Especially I mind rael weel,
Yin Sabbath mornin’ guid,
Whun in the Covenentin’ Church
He bro’k the leivin’ bread.

Selectin’ the abidin’ gifts
He led us al’ above,
Through “Faith” by “Hope” in “Charity,”
The greatest being, “Love.”

He cal’d each grace a nice young girl,
An’ usin’ language great,
Instructin’ us in sic’ a style
Nae man on earth cue bate.

“Miss Faith,” said he, reads aft God’s wurd,
Believes what she sees there,
Rests on the finished work alone,
Becomes exceedin’ fair.

“Miss Hope,” beholds the settin’ sun,
Resplendint with bright rays,
And sees beyond the mists o’ time
Those endless, happy days.

“Miss Charity,” the greatest far,
Furgets aboot hirsel’,
An’ daes mair guid throughout this wurl’
Than mortal tongue can tel’.

She suffers lang yit envies nane,
Nur vaunts wae puff’d up pride;
Rejoices only in the truth
That iver shall abide.

Esortin’ us tae covet gifts,
Especially those three,
An’ iver realise in full
Faith, Hope an’ Charity.

Adam Lynn, Cullybackey, 13th August 1901

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