Underwoods Part 9

Pleased as I was, I'm no denyin'

Some maitters were not edifyin'; For first I fand-an' here was news!- Mere hymn-books c.o.c.kin' in the pews- A humanised abomination, Unfit for ony congregation.

Syne, while I still was on the tenter, I scunnered at the new prezentor; I thocht him gesterin' an' cauld- A sair declension frae the auld.

Syne, as though a' the faith was wreckit, The prayer was not what I'd exspeckit.

Himsel', as it appeared to me, Was no the man he used to be.

But just as I was growin' vext He waled a maist judeecious text, An', launchin' into his prelections, Swoopt, wi' a skirl, on a' defections.

O what a gale was on my speerit To hear the p'ints o' doctrine clearit, And a' the horrors o' d.a.m.nation Set furth wi' faithfu' ministration!

Nae shauchlin' testimony here- We were a' d.a.m.ned, an' that was clear, I owned, wi' grat.i.tude an' wonder, He was a pleisure to sit under.

XIII

LATE in the nicht in bed I lay, The winds were at their weary play, An' tirlin' wa's an' skirlin' wae Through Heev'n they battered;- On-ding o' hail, on-blaff o' spray, The tempest blattered.

The masoned house it dinled through; It dung the s.h.i.+p, it cowped the coo'.

The rankit aiks it overthrew, Had braved a' weathers; The strang sea-gleds it took an' blew Awa' like feathers.

The thrawes o' fear on a' were shed, An' the hair rose, an' slumber fled, An' lichts were lit an' prayers were said Through a' the kintry; An' the cauld terror clum in bed Wi' a' an' sindry.

To hear in the pit-mirk on hie The brangled collieshangie flie, The warl', they thocht, wi' land an' sea, Itsel' wad cowpit; An' for auld airn, the smashed debris By G.o.d be rowpit.

Meanwhile frae far Aldeboran, To folks wi' talescopes in han', O' s.h.i.+ps that cowpit, winds that ran, Nae sign was seen, But the wee warl' in suns.h.i.+ne span As bricht's a preen.

I, tae, by G.o.d's especial grace, Dwall denty in a bieldy place, Wi' hosened feet, wi' shaven face, Wi' dacent mainners: A grand example to the race O' taut.i.t sinners!

The wind may blaw, the heathen rage, The deil may start on the rampage;- The sick in bed, the thief in cage- What's a' to me?

Cosh in my house, a sober sage, I sit an' see.

An' whiles the bluid spangs to my bree, To lie sae saft, to live sae free, While better men maun do an' die In unco places.

"_Whaur's G.o.d_?" I cry, an' "_Whae is me_ _To hae sic graces_?"

I mind the fecht the sailors keep, But fire or can'le, rest or sleep, In darkness an' the muckle deep; An' mind beside The herd that on the hills o' sheep Has wandered wide.

I mind me on the hoastin' weans- The penny joes on causey stanes- The auld folk wi' the crazy banes, Baith auld an' puir, That aye maun thole the winds an' rains An' labour sair.

An' whiles I'm kind o' pleased a blink, An' kind o' fleyed forby, to think, For a' my rowth o' meat an' drink An' waste o' crumb, I'll mebbe have to thole wi' skink In Kingdom Come.

For G.o.d whan jowes the Judgment bell, Wi' His ain Hand, His Leevin' Sel', Sall ryve the guid (as Prophets tell) Frae them that had it; And in the reamin' pat o' h.e.l.l, The rich be scaddit.

O Lord, if this indeed be sae, Let daw that sair an' happy day!

Again' the warl', grawn auld an' gray, Up wi' your aixe!

An' let the puir enjoy their play- I'll thole my paiks.

XIV-MY CONSCIENCE!

OF a' the ills that flesh can fear, The loss o' frien's, the lack o' gear, A yowlin' tyke, a glandered mear, A la.s.sie's nonsense- There's just ae thing I cannae bear, An' that's my conscience.

Whan day (an' a' excuse) has gane, An' wark is dune, and duty's plain, An' to my chalmer a' my lane I creep apairt, My conscience! hoo the yammerin' pain Stends to my heart!

A' day wi' various ends in view The hairsts o' time I had to pu', An' made a hash wad staw a soo, Let be a man!- My conscience! whan my han's were fu', Whaur were ye than?

An' there were a' the lures o' life, There pleesure skirlin' on the fife, There anger, wi' the hotchin' knife Ground shairp in h.e.l.l- My conscience!-you that's like a wife!- Whaur was yoursel'?

I ken it fine: just waitin' here, To gar the evil waur appear, To clart the guid, confuse the clear, Mis-ca' the great, My conscience! an' to raise a steer Whan a's ower late.

Sic-like, some tyke grawn auld and blind, Whan thieves brok' through the gear to p'ind, Has lain his dozened length an' grinned At the disaster; An' the morn's mornin', wud's the wind, Yokes on his master.

XV-TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN

(_Whan the dear doctor_, _dear to a'_, _Was still amang us here belaw_, _I set my pipes his praise to blaw_ _Wi' a' my speerit_; _But noo_, _Dear Doctor_! _he's awa'_, _An' ne'er can hear it_.)

BY Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees, By a' the various river-Dee's, In Mars and Manors 'yont the seas Or here at hame, Whaure'er there's kindly folk to please, They ken your name.

They ken your name, they ken your tyke, They ken the honey from your byke; But mebbe after a' your fyke, (The truth to tell) It's just your honest Rab they like, An' no yoursel'.

As at the gowff, some canny play'r Should tee a common ba' wi' care- Should flourish and deleever fair His souple s.h.i.+ntie- An' the ba' rise into the air, A leevin' lintie:

Sae in the game we writers play, There comes to some a bonny day, When a dear ferlie shall repay Their years o' strife, An' like your Rab, their things o' clay, Spreid wings o' life.

Ye scarce deserved it, I'm afraid- You that had never learned the trade, But just some idle mornin' strayed Into the schule, An' picked the fiddle up an' played Like Neil himsel'.

Your e'e was gleg, your fingers d.i.n.k; Ye didnae fash yoursel' to think, But wove, as fast as puss can link, Your denty wab:- Ye stapped your pen into the ink, An' there was Rab!

Sinsyne, whaure'er your fortune lay By dowie den, by canty brae, Simmer an' winter, nicht an' day, Rab was aye wi' ye; An' a' the folk on a' the way Were blithe to see ye.

O sir, the G.o.ds are kind indeed, An' hauld ye for an honoured heid, That for a wee bit clarkit screed Sae weel reward ye, An' lend-puir Rabbie bein' deid- His ghaist to guard ye.

For though, whaure'er yoursel' may be, We've just to turn an' glisk a wee, An' Rab at heel we're shure to see Wi' gladsome caper:- The bogle of a bogle, he- A ghaist o' paper!

And as the auld-farrand hero sees In h.e.l.l a bogle Hercules, Pit there the lesser deid to please, While he himsel'

Dwalls wi' the muckle G.o.ds at ease Far raised frae h.e.l.l:

Sae the true Rabbie far has gane On kindlier business o' his ain Wi' aulder frien's; an' his breist-bane An' stumpie tailie, He birstles at a new hearth stane By James and Ailie.

XVI

IT'S an owercome sooth for age an' youth And it brooks wi' nae denial, That the dearest friends are the auldest friends And the young are just on trial.