Betuix twal hours and eleven, 
I dreamed ane angel cam fra heaven, 
  With pleasant stevin, saying on hie,
  Tailors and Soutars, blest be ye! 

In heaven hie, ordained is your place,
Above all sancts in great solace, 
  Next God, greatest in dignitie: 
  Tailyeours and Soutars, blest be ye! 

The cause to you is not unkend, 
What God mismaks ye do amend,
  Be craft and great agilitie:
  Tailors and Soutars, blest be ye!

Soutars, with shoon weel made and meet,
Ye mend the fauts of ill-made feet; 
  Wherefore to heaven your sauls will flee: 
  Tailors and Soutars, blest be ye! 

Is not in all this fair a flyrok, 
That has upon his feet a wyrok, 
  Knowll tais, & nor mools in no degree, 
  But ye can hide them, blest be ye!

And Taileors, with weel-made claes, 
Can mend the warst-made man that gaes,
  And mak him seemly for to see:
  Tailors and Soutars, blest be ye!

Though God mak ane misfashioned man, 
Ye can him all shape new again, 
  And fashion him better be sic three: 
  Tailors and Soutars, blest be ye! 

Though a man have a broken back, 
Have ye a gude crafty tailor, what rack, -- 
  That can it cover with crafts slee! 
  Tailors and Soutars, blest be ye! 

Of God great kindness may ye claim, 
That helps his people frae crook and lame,
  Supporting faults with your supplie: 
  Tailors and Soutars, blest be ye! 

In erd ye kyth sic miracles here,
In heaven ye sall be sancts full clear, 
  Though ye be knaves in this countrie: 
  Tailors and Soutars blest be ye!