The poem
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 thee Muse you well may excuse ’Tis seldom her favourite passion.
Ye powers who preside o’er the wind, and the tide, Who markèd each element’s border; Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, Whose sovereign statute is order:— Within this dear mansion, may wayward Contention Or witherèd Envy ne’er enter; May secrecy round be the mystical bound, And brotherly Love be the centre!