The minister, reinforcing his great and shrill voice, continued to contend against and triumph over the rising of the squall and the dashing of the rain.
'In that day ye may go thirty mile and not hear a crawing cock,' he said; 'and fifty mile and not get a light to your pipe; and an hundred mile and not see a smoking house.

For there'll be naething in all Scotland but deid men's banes and blackness, and the living anger of the Lord.

O, where to find a bield--O sirs, where to find a bield from the wind of the Lord's anger?
Do ye call _this_ a wind?
Bethankit! Sirs, this is but a temporary dispensation; this is but a puff of wind, this is but a spit of rain and by with it.

Already there's a blue bow in the west, and the sun will take the crown of the causeway again, and your things'll be dried upon ye, and your flesh will be warm upon your bones.

But O, sirs, sirs! for the day of the Lord's anger!' His rhetoric was set forth with an ear-piercing elocution, and a voice that sometimes crashed like cannon.