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Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, To follow the noble vocation; Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another To sit in that honoured station. I've little to say, but only to pray, As praying's the ton of your fashion; A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, Tis seldom her favourite passion. Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide, Who marked each element's border; Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, Whose sovereign statute is order; Within this dear mansion may wayward contention Or withered envy ne-er enter; May secrecy round be the mystical bound, And brotherly love be the centre.