Underwoods
Stevenson, Robert Louis
Published 1887
I—THE MAKER TO POSTERITY
FAR ’yont amang the years to be
When a’ we think, an’ a’ we see,
An’ a’ we luve, ’s been dung ajee
By time’s rouch shouther,
An’ what was richt and wrang for me
Lies mangled throu’ther,
It’s possible—it’s hardly mair—
That some ane, ripin’ after lear—
Some auld professor or young heir,
If still there’s either—
May find an’ read me, an’ be sair
Perplexed, puir brither!
“_What tongue does your auld bookie speak_?”
He’ll spier; an’ I, his mou to steik:
“_No bein’ fit to write in Greek_,
_I write in Lallan_,
_Dear to my heart as the peat reek_,
_Auld as Tantallon_.
“_Few spak it then_, _an’ noo there’s nane_.
_My puir auld sangs lie a’ their lane_,
_Their sense_, _that aince was braw an’ plain_,
_Tint a’thegether_,
_Like runes upon a standin’ stane_
_Amang the heather_.
“_But think not you the brae to speel_;
_You_, _tae_, _maun chow the bitter peel_;
_For a’ your lear_, _for a’ your skeel_,
_Ye’re nane sae lucky_;
_An’ things are mebbe waur than weel_
_For you_, _my buckie_.
“_The hale concern_ (_baith hens an’ eggs_,
_Baith books an’ writers_, _stars an’ clegs_)
_Noo stachers upon lowsent legs_
_An’ wears awa’_;
_The tack o’ mankind_, _near the dregs_,
_Rins unco law_.
“_Your book_, _that in some braw new tongue_,
_Ye wrote or prentit_, _preached or sung_,
_Will still be just a bairn_, _an’ young_
_In fame an’ years_,
_Whan the hale planet’s guts are dung_
_About your ears_;
“_An’ you_, _sair gruppin’ to a spar_
_Or whammled wi’ some bleezin’ star_,
_Cryin’ to ken whaur deil ye are_,
_Hame_, _France_, _or Flanders_—
_Whang sindry like a railway car_
_An’ flie in danders_.”
II—ILLE TERRARUM
FRAE nirly, nippin’, Eas’lan’ breeze,
Frae Norlan’ snaw, an’ haar o’ seas,
Weel happit in your gairden trees,
A bonny bit,
Atween the muckle Pentland’s knees,
Secure ye sit.
Beeches an’ aiks entwine their theek,
An’ firs, a stench, auld-farrant clique.
A’ simmer day, your chimleys reek,
Couthy and bien;
An’ here an’ there your windies keek
Amang the green.
A pickle plats an’ paths an’ posies,
A wheen auld gillyflowers an’ roses:
A ring o’ wa’s the hale encloses
Frae sheep or men;
An’ there the auld housie beeks an’ dozes,
A’ by her lane.
The gairdner crooks his weary back
A’ day in the pitaty-track,
Or mebbe stops awhile to crack
Wi’ Jane the cook,
Or at some buss, worm-eaten-black,
To gie a look.
Frae the high hills the curlew ca’s;
The sheep gang baaing by the wa’s;
Or whiles a clan o’ roosty craws
Cangle thegether;
The wild bees seek the gairden raws,
Weariet wi’ heather.
Or in the gloamin’ douce an’ gray
The sweet-throat mavis tunes her lay;
The herd comes linkin’ doun the brae;
An’ by degrees
The muckle siller müne maks way
Amang the trees.
Here aft hae I, wi’ sober heart,
For meditation sat apairt,
When orra loves or kittle art
Perplexed my mind;
Here socht a balm for ilka smart
O’ humankind.
Here aft, weel neukit by my lane,
Wi’ Horace, or perhaps Montaigne,
The mornin’ hours hae come an’ gane
Abüne my heid—
I wadnae gi’en a chucky-stane
For a’ I’d read.
But noo the auld city, street by street,
An’ winter fu’ o’ snaw an’ sleet,
Awhile shut in my gangrel feet
An’ goavin’ mettle;
Noo is the soopit ingle sweet,
An’ liltin’ kettle.
An’ noo the winter winds complain;
Cauld lies the glaur in ilka lane;
On draigled hizzie, tautit wean
An’ drucken lads,
In the mirk nicht, the winter rain
Dribbles an’ blads.
Whan bugles frae the Castle rock,
An’ beaten drums wi’ dowie shock,
Wauken, at cauld-rife sax o’clock,
My chitterin’ frame,
I mind me on the kintry cock,
The kintry hame.
I mind me on yon bonny bield;
An’ Fancy traivels far afield
To gaither a’ that gairdens yield
O’ sun an’ Simmer:
To hearten up a dowie chield,
Fancy’s the limmer!
III
WHEN aince Aprile has fairly come,
An’ birds may bigg in winter’s lum,
An’ pleisure’s spreid for a’ and some
O’ whatna state,
Love, wi’ her auld recruitin’ drum,
Than taks the gate.
The heart plays dunt wi’ main an’ micht;
The lasses’ een are a’ sae bricht,
Their dresses are sae braw an’ ticht,
The bonny birdies!—
Puir winter virtue at the sicht
Gangs heels ower hurdies.
An’ aye as love frae land to land
Tirls the drum wi’ eident hand,
A’ men collect at her command,
Toun-bred or land’art,
An’ follow in a denty band
Her gaucy standart.
An’ I, wha sang o’ rain an’ snaw,
An’ weary winter weel awa’,
Noo busk me in a jacket braw,
An’ tak my place
I’ the ram-stam, harum-scarum raw,
Wi’ smilin’ face.
IV—A MILE AN’ A BITTOCK
A MILE an’ a bittock, a mile or twa,
Abüthe burn, ayont the law,
Davie an’ Donal’ an’ Cherlie an’ a’,
An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
Ane went hame wi’ the ither, an’ then
The ither went hame wi’ the ither twa men,
An’ baith wad return him the service again,
An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
The clocks were chappin’ in house an’ ha’,
Eleeven, twal an’ ane an’ twa;
An’ the guidman’s face was turnt to the wa’,
An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
A wind got up frae affa the sea,
It blew the stars as clear’s could be,
It blew in the een of a’ o’ the three,
An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
Noo, Davie was first to get sleep in his head,
“The best o’ frien’s maun twine,” he said;
“I’m weariet, an’ here I’m awa’ to my bed.”
An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
Twa o’ them walkin’ an’ crackin’ their lane,
The mornin’ licht cam gray an’ plain,
An’ the birds they yammert on stick an’ stane,
An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
O years ayont, O years awa’,
My lads, ye’ll mind whate’er befa’—
My lads, ye’ll mind on the bield o’ the law,
When the müne was shinin’ clearly.
V—A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN
THE clinkum-clank o’ Sabbath bells
Noo to the hoastin’ rookery swells,
Noo faintin’ laigh in shady dells,
Sounds far an’ near,
An’ through the simmer kintry tells
Its tale o’ cheer.
An’ noo, to that melodious play,
A’ deidly awn the quiet sway—
A’ ken their solemn holiday,
Bestial an’ human,
The singin’ lintie on the brae,
The restin’ plou’man,
He, mair than a’ the lave o’ men,
His week completit joys to ken;
Half-dressed, he daunders out an’ in,
Perplext wi’ leisure;
An’ his raxt limbs he’ll rax again
Wi’ painfü’ pleesure.
The steerin’ mither strang afit
Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit;
Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shüit
To scart upon them,
Or sweeties in their pouch to pit,
Wi’ blessin’s on them.
The lasses, clean frae tap to taes,
Are busked in crunklin’ underclaes;
The gartened hose, the weel-filled stays,
The nakit shift,
A’ bleached on bonny greens for days,
An’ white’s the drift.
An’ noo to face the kirkward mile:
The guidman’s hat o’ dacent style,
The blackit shoon, we noo maun fyle
As white’s the miller:
A waefü’ peety tae, to spile
The warth o’ siller.
Our Marg’et, aye sae keen to crack,
Douce-stappin’ in the stoury track,
Her emeralt goun a’ kiltit back
Frae snawy coats,
White-ankled, leads the kirkward pack
Wi’ Dauvit Groats.
A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks,
A’ spiled wi’ lyin’ by for weeks,
The guidman follows closs, an’ cleiks
The sonsie missis;
His sarious face at aince bespeaks
The day that this is.
And aye an’ while we nearer draw
To whaur the kirkton lies alaw,
Mair neebours, comin’ saft an’ slaw
Frae here an’ there,
The thicker thrang the gate an’ caw
The stour in air.
But hark! the bells frae nearer clang;
To rowst the slaw, their sides they bang;
An’ see! black coats a’ready thrang
The green kirkyaird;
And at the yett, the chestnuts spang
That brocht the laird.
The solemn elders at the plate
Stand drinkin’ deep the pride o’ state:
The practised hands as gash an’ great
As Lords o’ Session;
The later named, a wee thing blate
In their expression.
The prentit stanes that mark the deid,
Wi’ lengthened lip, the sarious read;
Syne wag a moraleesin’ heid,
An’ then an’ there
Their hirplin’ practice an’ their creed
Try hard to square.
It’s here our Merren lang has lain,
A wee bewast the table-stane;
An’ yon’s the grave o’ Sandy Blane;
An’ further ower,
The mither’s brithers, dacent men!
Lie a’ the fower.
Here the guidman sall bide awee
To dwall amang the deid; to see
Auld faces clear in fancy’s e’e;
Belike to hear
Auld voices fa’in saft an’ slee
On fancy’s ear.
Thus, on the day o’ solemn things,
The bell that in the steeple swings
To fauld a scaittered faim’ly rings
Its walcome screed;
An’ just a wee thing nearer brings
The quick an’ deid.
But noo the bell is ringin’ in;
To tak their places, folk begin;
The minister himsel’ will shüne
Be up the gate,
Filled fu’ wi’ clavers about sin
An’ man’s estate.
The tünes are up—_French_, to be shüre,
The faithfü’ _French_, an’ twa-three mair;
The auld prezentor, hoastin’ sair,
Wales out the portions,
An’ yirks the tüne into the air
Wi’ queer contortions.
Follows the prayer, the readin’ next,
An’ than the fisslin’ for the text—
The twa-three last to find it, vext
But kind o’ proud;
An’ than the peppermints are raxed,
An’ southernwood.
For noo’s the time whan pews are seen
Nid-noddin’ like a mandareen;
When tenty mithers stap a preen
In sleepin’ weans;
An’ nearly half the parochine
Forget their pains.
There’s just a waukrif’ twa or three:
Thrawn commentautors sweer to ’gree,
Weans glowrin’ at the bumlin’ bee
On windie-glasses,
Or lads that tak a keek a-glee
At sonsie lasses.
Himsel’, meanwhile, frae whaur he cocks
An’ bobs belaw the soundin’-box,
The treesures of his words unlocks
Wi’ prodigality,
An’ deals some unco dingin’ knocks
To infidality.
Wi’ sappy unction, hoo he burkes
The hopes o’ men that trust in works,
Expounds the fau’ts o’ ither kirks,
An’ shaws the best o’ them
No muckle better than mere Turks,
When a’s confessed o’ them.
Bethankit! what a bonny creed!
What mair would ony Christian need?—
The braw words rumm’le ower his heid,
Nor steer the sleeper;
And in their restin’ graves, the deid
Sleep aye the deeper.
_Note_.—It may be guessed by some that I had a certain parish in my eye,
and this makes it proper I should add a word of disclamation. In my time
there have been two ministers in that parish. Of the first I have a
special reason to speak well, even had there been any to think ill. The
second I have often met in private and long (in the due phrase) “sat
under” in his church, and neither here nor there have I heard an unkind
or ugly word upon his lips. The preacher of the text had thus no
original in that particular parish; but when I was a boy, he might have
been observed in many others; he was then (like the schoolmaster) abroad;
and by recent advices, it would seem he has not yet entirely disappeared.
VI—THE SPAEWIFE
O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Why chops are guid to brander and nane sae guid to fry.
An’ siller, that’s sae braw to keep, is brawer still to gi’e.
—_It’s gey an’ easy spierin’_, says the beggar-wife to me.
O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Hoo a’ things come to be whaur we find them when we try,
The lasses in their claes an’ the fishes in the sea.
—_It’s gey an’ easy spierin’_, says the beggar-wife to me.
O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Why lads are a’ to sell an’ lasses a’ to buy;
An’ naebody for dacency but barely twa or three
—_It’s gey an’ easy spierin’_, says the beggar-wife to me.
O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Gin death’s as shüre to men as killin’ is to kye,
Why God has filled the yearth sae fu’ o’ tasty things to pree.
—_It’s gey an’ easy spierin’_, says the beggar-wife to me.
O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar wife says I—
The reason o’ the cause an’ the wherefore o’ the why,
Wi’ mony anither riddle brings the tear into my e’e.
—_It’s gey an’ easy spierin’_, says the beggar-wife to me.
VII—THE BLAST—1875
IT’S rainin’. Weet’s the gairden sod,
Weet the lang roads whaur gangrels plod—
A maist unceevil thing o’ God
In mid July—
If ye’ll just curse the sneckdraw, dod!
An’ sae wull I!
He’s a braw place in Heev’n, ye ken,
An’ lea’s us puir, forjaskit men
Clamjamfried in the but and ben
He ca’s the earth—
A wee bit inconvenient den
No muckle worth;
An’ whiles, at orra times, keeks out,
Sees what puir mankind are about;
An’ if He can, I’ve little doubt,
Upsets their plans;
He hates a’ mankind, brainch and root,
An’ a’ that’s man’s.
An’ whiles, whan they tak heart again,
An’ life i’ the sun looks braw an’ plain,
Doun comes a jaw o’ droukin’ rain
Upon their honours—
God sends a spate outower the plain,
Or mebbe thun’ers.
Lord safe us, life’s an unco thing!
Simmer an’ Winter, Yule an’ Spring,
The damned, dour-heartit seasons bring
A feck o’ trouble.
I wadnae try’t to be a king—
No, nor for double.
But since we’re in it, willy-nilly,
We maun be watchfü’, wise an’ skilly,
An’ no mind ony ither billy,
Lassie nor God.
But drink—that’s my best counsel till ’e:
Sae tak the nod.
VIII—THE COUNTERBLAST—1886
MY bonny man, the warld, it’s true,
Was made for neither me nor you;
It’s just a place to warstle through,
As job confessed o’t;
And aye the best that we’ll can do
Is mak the best o’t.
There’s rowth o’ wrang, I’m free to say:
The simmer brunt, the winter blae,
The face of earth a’ fyled wi’ clay
An’ dour wi’ chuckies,
An’ life a rough an’ land’art play
For country buckies.
An’ food’s anither name for clart;
An’ beasts an’ brambles bite an’ scart;
An’ what would WE be like, my heart!
If bared o’ claethin’?
—Aweel, I cannae mend your cart:
It’s that or naethin’.
A feck o’ folk frae first to last
Have through this queer experience passed;
Twa-three, I ken, just damn an’ blast
The hale transaction;
But twa-three ithers, east an’ wast,
Fand satisfaction,
Whaur braid the briery muirs expand,
A waefü’ an’ a weary land,
The bumblebees, a gowden band,
Are blithely hingin’;
An’ there the canty wanderer fand
The laverock singin’.
Trout in the burn grow great as herr’n,
The simple sheep can find their fair’n’;
The wind blaws clean about the cairn
Wi’ caller air;
The muircock an’ the barefit bairn
Are happy there.
Sic-like the howes o’ life to some:
Green loans whaur they ne’er fash their thumb.
But mark the muckle winds that come
Soopin’ an’ cool,
Or hear the powrin’ burnie drum
In the shilfa’s pool.
The evil wi’ the guid they tak;
They ca’ a gray thing gray, no black;
To a steigh brae, a stubborn back
Addressin’ daily;
An’ up the rude, unbieldy track
O’ life, gang gaily.
What you would like’s a palace ha’,
Or Sinday parlour dink an’ braw
Wi’ a’ things ordered in a raw
By denty leddies.
Weel, than, ye cannae hae’t: that’s a’
That to be said is.
An’ since at life ye’ve taen the grue,
An’ winnae blithely hirsle through,
Ye’ve fund the very thing to do—
That’s to drink speerit;
An’ shüne we’ll hear the last o’ you—
An’ blithe to hear it!
The shoon ye coft, the life ye lead,
Ithers will heir when aince ye’re deid;
They’ll heir your tasteless bite o’ breid,
An’ find it sappy;
They’ll to your dulefü’ house succeed,
An’ there be happy.
As whan a glum an’ fractious wean
Has sat an’ sullened by his lane
Till, wi’ a rowstin’ skelp, he’s taen
An’ shoo’d to bed—
The ither bairns a’ fa’ to play’n’,
As gleg’s a gled.
IX—THE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL
IT’S strange that God should fash to frame
The yearth and lift sae hie,
An’ clean forget to explain the same
To a gentleman like me.
They gutsy, donnered ither folk,
Their weird they weel may dree;
But why present a pig in a poke
To a gentleman like me?
They ither folk their parritch eat
An’ sup their sugared tea;
But the mind is no to be wyled wi’ meat
Wi’ a gentleman like me.
They ither folk, they court their joes
At gloamin’ on the lea;
But they’re made of a commoner clay, I suppose,
Than a gentleman like me.
They ither folk, for richt or wrang,
They suffer, bleed, or dee;
But a’ thir things are an emp’y sang
To a gentleman like me.
It’s a different thing that I demand,
Tho’ humble as can be—
A statement fair in my Maker’s hand
To a gentleman like me:
A clear account writ fair an’ broad,
An’ a plain apologie;
Or the deevil a ceevil word to God
From a gentleman like me.
X—THEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY CLASS DINNER CLUB
DEAR Thamson class, whaure’er I gang
It aye comes ower me wi’ a spang:
“_Lordsake_! _they Thamson lads_—(_deil hang_
_Or else Lord mend them_!)—
_An’ that wanchancy annual sang_
_I ne’er can send them_!”
Straucht, at the name, a trusty tyke,
My conscience girrs ahint the dyke;
Straucht on my hinderlands I fyke
To find a rhyme t’ ye;
Pleased—although mebbe no pleased-like—
To gie my time t’ye.
“_Weel_,” an’ says you, wi’ heavin’ breist,
“_Sae far_, _sae guid_, _but what’s the neist_?
_Yearly we gaither to the feast_,
_A’ hopefü’ men_—
_Yearly we skelloch_ ‘_Hang the beast_—
_Nae sang again_!’”
My lads, an’ what am I to say?
Ye shürely ken the Muse’s way:
Yestreen, as gleg’s a tyke—the day,
Thrawn like a cuddy:
Her conduc’, that to her’s a play,
Deith to a body.
Aft whan I sat an’ made my mane,
Aft whan I laboured burd-alane
Fishin’ for rhymes an’ findin’ nane,
Or nane were fit for ye—
Ye judged me cauld’s a chucky stane—
No car’n’ a bit for ye!
But saw ye ne’er some pingein’ bairn
As weak as a pitaty-par’n’—
Less üsed wi’ guidin’ horse-shoe airn
Than steerin’ crowdie—
Packed aff his lane, by moss an’ cairn,
To ca’ the howdie.
Wae’s me, for the puir callant than!
He wambles like a poke o’ bran,
An’ the lowse rein, as hard’s he can,
Pu’s, trem’lin’ handit;
Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan’
Behauld him landit.
Sic-like—I awn the weary fac’—
Whan on my muse the gate I tak,
An’ see her gleed e’e raxin’ back
To keek ahint her;—
To me, the brig o’ Heev’n gangs black
As blackest winter.
“_Lordsake_! _we’re aff_,” thinks I, “_but whaur_?
_On what abhorred an’ whinny scaur_,
_Or whammled in what sea o’ glaur_,
_Will she desert me_?
_An’ will she just disgrace_? _or waur_—
_Will she no hurt me_?”
Kittle the quaere! But at least
The day I’ve backed the fashious beast,
While she, wi’ mony a spang an’ reist,
Flang heels ower bonnet;
An’ a’ triumphant—for your feast,
Hae! there’s your sonnet!
XI—EMBRO HIE KIRK
THE Lord Himsel’ in former days
Waled out the proper tünes for praise
An’ named the proper kind o’ claes
For folk to preach in:
Preceese and in the chief o’ ways
Important teachin’.
He ordered a’ things late and air’;
He ordered folk to stand at prayer,
(Although I cannae just mind where
He gave the warnin’,)
An’ pit pomatum on their hair
On Sabbath mornin’.
The hale o’ life by His commands
Was ordered to a body’s hands;
But see! this _corpus juris_ stands
By a’ forgotten;
An’ God’s religion in a’ lands
Is deid an’ rotten.
While thus the lave o’ mankind’s lost,
O’ Scotland still God maks His boast—
Puir Scotland, on whase barren coast
A score or twa
Auld wives wi’ mutches an’ a hoast
Still keep His law.
In Scotland, a wheen canty, plain,
Douce, kintry-leevin’ folk retain
The Truth—or did so aince—alane
Of a’ men leevin’;
An’ noo just twa o’ them remain—
Just Begg an’ Niven.
For noo, unfaithfü’, to the Lord
Auld Scotland joins the rebel horde;
Her human hymn-books on the board
She noo displays:
An’ Embro Hie Kirk’s been restored
In popish ways.
O _punctum temporis_ for action
To a’ o’ the reformin’ faction,
If yet, by ony act or paction,
Thocht, word, or sermon,
This dark an’ damnable transaction
Micht yet determine!
For see—as Doctor Begg explains—
Hoo easy ’t’s düne! a pickle weans,
Wha in the Hie Street gaither stanes
By his instruction,
The uncovenantit, pentit panes
Ding to destruction.
Up, Niven, or ower late—an’ dash
Laigh in the glaur that carnal hash;
Let spires and pews wi’ gran’ stramash
Thegether fa’;
The rumlin’ kist o’ whustles smash
In pieces sma’.
Noo choose ye out a walie hammer;
About the knottit buttress clam’er;
Alang the steep roof stoyt an’ stammer,
A gate mis-chancy;
On the aul’ spire, the bells’ hie cha’mer,
Dance your bit dancie.
Ding, devel, dunt, destroy, an’ ruin,
Wi’ carnal stanes the square bestrewin’,
Till your loud chaps frae Kyle to Fruin,
Frae Hell to Heeven,
Tell the guid wark that baith are doin’—
Baith Begg an’ Niven.
XII—THE SCOTSMAN’S RETURN FROM ABROAD
In a letter from Mr. Thomson to Mr. Johnstone.
IN mony a foreign pairt I’ve been,
An’ mony an unco ferlie seen,
Since, Mr. Johnstone, you and I
Last walkit upon Cocklerye.
Wi’ gleg, observant een, I pass’t
By sea an’ land, through East an’ Wast,
And still in ilka age an’ station
Saw naething but abomination.
In thir uncovenantit lands
The gangrel Scot uplifts his hands
At lack of a’ sectarian füsh’n,
An’ cauld religious destitütion.
He rins, puir man, frae place to place,
Tries a’ their graceless means o’ grace,
Preacher on preacher, kirk on kirk—
This yin a stot an’ thon a stirk—
A bletherin’ clan, no warth a preen,
As bad as Smith of Aiberdeen!
At last, across the weary faem,
Frae far, outlandish pairts I came.
On ilka side o’ me I fand
Fresh tokens o’ my native land.
Wi’ whatna joy I hailed them a’—
The hilltaps standin’ raw by raw,
The public house, the Hielan’ birks,
And a’ the bonny U.P. kirks!
But maistly thee, the bluid o’ Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to John o’ Grots,
The king o’ drinks, as I conceive it,
Talisker, Isla, or Glenlivet!
For after years wi’ a pockmantie
Frae Zanzibar to Alicante,
In mony a fash and sair affliction
I gie’t as my sincere conviction—
Of a’ their foreign tricks an’ pliskies,
I maist abominate their whiskies.
Nae doot, themsel’s, they ken it weel,
An’ wi’ a hash o’ leemon peel,
And ice an’ siccan filth, they ettle
The stawsome kind o’ goo to settle;
Sic wersh apothecary’s broos wi’
As Scotsmen scorn to fyle their moo’s wi’.
An’, man, I was a blithe hame-comer
Whan first I syndit out my rummer.
Ye should hae seen me then, wi’ care
The less important pairts prepare;
Syne, weel contentit wi’ it a’,
Pour in the sperrits wi’ a jaw!
I didnae drink, I didnae speak,—
I only snowkit up the reek.
I was sae pleased therein to paidle,
I sat an’ plowtered wi’ my ladle.
An’ blithe was I, the morrow’s morn,
To daunder through the stookit corn,
And after a’ my strange mishanters,
Sit doun amang my ain dissenters.
An’, man, it was a joy to me
The pu’pit an’ the pews to see,
The pennies dirlin’ in the plate,
The elders lookin’ on in state;
An’ ’mang the first, as it befell,
Wha should I see, sir, but yoursel’
I was, and I will no deny it,
At the first gliff a hantle tryit
To see yoursel’ in sic a station—
It seemed a doubtfü’ dispensation.
The feelin’ was a mere digression;
For shüne I understood the session,
An’ mindin’ Aiken an’ M‘Neil,
I wondered they had düne sae weel.
I saw I had mysel’ to blame;
For had I but remained at hame,
Aiblins—though no ava’ deservin’ ’t—
They micht hae named your humble servant.
The kirk was filled, the door was steeked;
Up to the pu’pit ance I keeked;
I was mair pleased than I can tell—
It was the minister himsel’!
Proud, proud was I to see his face,
After sae lang awa’ frae grace.
Pleased as I was, I’m no denyin’
Some maitters were not edifyin’;
For first I fand—an’ here was news!—
Mere hymn-books cockin’ 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 üsed 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’ damnation
Set furth wi’ faithfü’ ministration!
Nae shauchlin’ testimony here—
We were a’ damned, an’ that was clear,
I owned, wi’ gratitude 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 ship, 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 God be rowpit.
Meanwhile frae far Aldeboran,
To folks wi’ talescopes in han’,
O’ ships that cowpit, winds that ran,
Nae sign was seen,
But the wee warl’ in sunshine span
As bricht’s a preen.
I, tae, by God’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’ tautit 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 God_?” 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 God 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’ Hell,
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 lassie’s nonsense—
There’s just ae thing I cannae bear,
An’ that’s my conscience.
Whan day (an’ a’ excüse) has gane,
An’ wark is düne, 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 Hell—
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, confüse 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 trüth 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 shintie—
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 schüle,
An’ picked the fiddle up an’ played
Like Neil himsel’.
Your e’e was gleg, your fingers dink;
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 gods 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 shüre to see
Wi’ gladsome caper:—
The bogle of a bogle, he—
A ghaist o’ paper!
And as the auld-farrand hero sees
In Hell a bogle Hercules,
Pit there the lesser deid to please,
While he himsel’
Dwalls wi’ the muckle gods at ease
Far raised frae hell:
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.
There’s a rival bauld wi’ young an’ auld
And it’s him that has bereft me;
For the sürest friends are the auldest friends
And the maist o’ mines hae left me.
There are kind hearts still, for friends to fill
And fools to take and break them;
But the nearest friends are the auldest friends
And the grave’s the place to seek them.
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