The Losin o’ the Prize

We’ joy I staun afore you a’;

My hert is fu a glee,

For I hae langed the hale year roon

For the Sunday Schule Soiree.

Amang the nichts o’ a’ the year,

This nicht stauns oot the best,

A nicht when every yin could be

For ever saved an’ blest.

Just see the prizes by the scores.

Some excellent books I see.

I feel like greetin’ when I look,

For nane there is for me!

I’ve been an absentee a lot;

For weeks I wasna there.

My mither heard about it tae,

But a could tell her mair.

She thocht that I would get a prize;

I’m gled she isna here.

Yin look frae her would be enough

Tae make me shake we’ fear.

But if I’m spairt anither year,

Tae the Sunday Schule Soiree,

I’m shair that when I’m present there,

There’ll be a prize for me.

I often wonner when I dee,

An reach the realms abin,

If there will be a prize for me,

For work that I hae din.

It’s no attendance marks that earns

A prize frae the pierced hauns,

But faithfulness tae Him each day —

It’s only that, that stauns.

Sae if you want tae earn a prize,

You’ll need to faithful be.

It’s waurs tae lose a prize up there,

Than at the schule soiree.