Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 16

Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, Girns an' looks back, Wis.h.i.+ng the ten Egyptian plagues May seize you quick.

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superst.i.tion!

Wae's me, she's in a sad condition: Fye: bring Black Jock,^1 her state physician, To see her water; Alas, there's ground for great suspicion She'll ne'er get better.

Enthusiasm's past redemption, Gane in a gallopin' consumption: Not a' her quacks, wi' a' their gumption, Can ever mend her; Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption, She'll soon surrender.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, For every hole to get a stapple; But now she fetches at the thrapple, An' fights for breath; Haste, gie her name up in the chapel,^2 Near unto death.

It's you an' Taylor^3 are the chief To blame for a' this black mischief;

[Footnote 1: The Rev. J. Russell, Kilmarnock.--R. B.]

[Footnote 2: Mr. Russell's Kirk.--R. B.]

[Footnote 3: Dr. Taylor of Norwich.--R. B.]

But, could the Lord's ain folk get leave, A toom tar barrel An' twa red peats wad bring relief, And end the quarrel.

For me, my skill's but very sma', An' skill in prose I've nane ava'; But quietlins-wise, between us twa, Weel may you speed!

And tho' they sud your sair misca', Ne'er fash your head.

E'en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!

The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker; And still 'mang hands a hearty bicker O' something stout; It gars an owthor's pulse beat quicker, And helps his wit.

There's naething like the honest nappy; Whare'll ye e'er see men sae happy, Or women sonsie, saft an' sappy, 'Tween morn and morn, As them wha like to taste the drappie, In gla.s.s or horn?

I've seen me dazed upon a time, I scarce could wink or see a styme; Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,-- Ought less is little-- Then back I rattle on the rhyme, As gleg's a whittle.

The Holy Fair^1

A robe of seeming truth and trust Hid crafty Observation; And secret hung, with poison'd crust, The dirk of Defamation:

[Footnote 1: "Holy Fair" is a common phrase in the west of Scotland for a sacramental occasion.--R. B.]

A mask that like the gorget show'd, Dye-varying on the pigeon; And for a mantle large and broad, He wrapt him in Religion.

Hypocrisy A-La-Mode

Upon a simmer Sunday morn When Nature's face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, An' snuff the caller air.

The rising sun owre Galston muirs Wi' glorious light was glintin; The hares were hirplin down the furrs, The lav'rocks they were chantin Fu' sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, To see a scene sae gay, Three hizzies, early at the road, Cam skelpin up the way.

Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, But ane wi' lyart lining; The third, that gaed a wee a-back, Was in the fas.h.i.+on s.h.i.+ning Fu' gay that day.

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, In feature, form, an' claes; Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin, An' sour as only slaes: The third cam up, hap-stap-an'-lowp, As light as ony lambie, An' wi'a curchie low did stoop, As soon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day.

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet la.s.s, I think ye seem to ken me; I'm sure I've seen that bonie face But yet I canna name ye."

Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak, An' taks me by the han's, "Ye, for my sake, hae gien the f.e.c.k Of a' the ten comman's A screed some day."

"My name is Fun--your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae; An' this is Superst.i.tution here, An' that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, To spend an hour in daffin: Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, We will get famous laughin At them this day."

Quoth I, "Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't; I'll get my Sunday's sark on, An' meet you on the holy spot; Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin!"

Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, An' soon I made me ready; For roads were clad, frae side to side, Wi' mony a weary body In droves that day.

Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, Gaed hoddin by their cotters; There sw.a.n.kies young, in braw braid-claith, Are springing owre the gutters.

The la.s.ses, skelpin barefit, thrang, In silks an' scarlets glitter; Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang, An' farls, bak'd wi' b.u.t.ter, Fu' crump that day.

When by the plate we set our nose, Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws, An' we maun draw our tippence.

Then in we go to see the show: On ev'ry side they're gath'rin; Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy bleth'rin Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, An' screen our countra gentry; There Racer Jess,^2 an' twa-three wh.o.r.es, Are blinkin at the entry.

Here sits a raw o' t.i.ttlin jads, Wi' heaving breast an' bare neck; An' there a batch o' wabster lads, Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock, For fun this day.

Here, some are thinkin on their sins, An' some upo' their claes; Ane curses feet that fyl'd his s.h.i.+ns, Anither sighs an' prays: On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi' screwed-up, grace-proud faces; On that a set o' chaps, at watch, Thrang winkin on the la.s.ses To chairs that day.

O happy is that man, an' blest!

Nae wonder that it pride him!

Whase ain dear la.s.s, that he likes best, Comes clinkin down beside him!

Wi' arms repos'd on the chair back, He sweetly does compose him; Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom, Unkend that day.

Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation; For Moodie^3 speels the holy door, Wi' tidings o' d.a.m.nation:

[Footnote 2: Racer Jess (d. 1813) was a half-witted daughter of Possie Nansie. She was a great pedestrian.]

[Footnote 3: Rev. Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.]

Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 'Mang sons o' G.o.d present him, The vera sight o' Moodie's face, To 's ain het hame had sent him Wi' fright that day.

Hear how he clears the point o' faith Wi' rattlin and wi' thumpin!

Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, He's stampin, an' he's jumpin!

His lengthen'd chin, his turned-up snout, His eldritch squeel an' gestures, O how they fire the heart devout, Like cantharidian plaisters On sic a day!

But hark! the tent has chang'd its voice, There's peace an' rest nae langer; For a' the real judges rise, They canna sit for anger, Smith^4 opens out his cauld harangues, On practice and on morals; An' aff the G.o.dly pour in thrangs, To gie the jars an' barrels A lift that day.

What signifies his barren s.h.i.+ne, Of moral powers an' reason?

His English style, an' gesture fine Are a' clean out o' season.

Like Socrates or Antonine, Or some auld pagan heathen, The moral man he does define, But ne'er a word o' faith in That's right that day.

In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison'd nostrum; For Peebles,^5 frae the water-fit, Ascends the holy rostrum:

[Footnote 4: Rev. George Smith of Galston.]

[Footnote 5: Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-upon-Ayr.]

See, up he's got, the word o' G.o.d, An' meek an' mim has view'd it, While Common-sense has taen the road, An' aff, an' up the Cowgate^6 Fast, fast that day.