[4]Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their baneful, midnight errands: particularly, those aerial people, the fairies, are said, on that night to hold a grand anniversary.
[4]Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their baneful, midnight errands: particularly, those aerial people, the fairies, are said, on that night to hold a grand anniversary.
[5]Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.
[5]Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.
[6]A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story for being a favourite haunt of fairies.
[6]A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story for being a favourite haunt of fairies.
[7]The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great Deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.
[7]The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great Deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.
[8]The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each astock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells—the husband or wife. If anyyird, or earth, stick to the root, that istocher, or fortune; and the taste of thecustoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly the stems, or to give them their ordinary appellation, therunts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house, are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question.
[8]The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each astock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells—the husband or wife. If anyyird, or earth, stick to the root, that istocher, or fortune; and the taste of thecustoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly the stems, or to give them their ordinary appellation, therunts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house, are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question.
[9]They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants thetop pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will want the maidenhead.
[9]They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants thetop pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will want the maidenhead.
[10]When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, etc., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls afause-house.
[10]When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, etc., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls afause-house.
[11]Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire; and according as they burn quickly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be.
[11]Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire; and according as they burn quickly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be.
[12]Whoever would with success try this spell must strictly observethese directions. Steal out all alone to the kiln, and darkling, throw into the pot, a clue of blue yarn: wind it in a new clue off the old one; and towards the latter end, something will hold the thread: demand,wha hauds? i.e., who holds? and answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse.
[12]Whoever would with success try this spell must strictly observethese directions. Steal out all alone to the kiln, and darkling, throw into the pot, a clue of blue yarn: wind it in a new clue off the old one; and towards the latter end, something will hold the thread: demand,wha hauds? i.e., who holds? and answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse.
[13]Take a candle and go alone to a looking glass: eat an apple before it, and some traditions say you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal companion to be will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder.
[13]Take a candle and go alone to a looking glass: eat an apple before it, and some traditions say you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal companion to be will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder.
[14]Steal out; unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp seed; harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, now and then, “Hemp seed, I saw [sow] thee, Hemp seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee.” Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, “come after me and shaw thee,” that is, show thyself; in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, “come after me and harrow thee.”
[14]Steal out; unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp seed; harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, now and then, “Hemp seed, I saw [sow] thee, Hemp seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee.” Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, “come after me and shaw thee,” that is, show thyself; in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, “come after me and harrow thee.”
[15]This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors; taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the Being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country-dialect, we call a wecht; and go thro' all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time, an apparition will pass thro' the barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life.
[15]This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors; taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the Being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country-dialect, we call a wecht; and go thro' all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time, an apparition will pass thro' the barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life.
[16]Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a bear-stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appearance of your conjugal yoke-fellow.
[16]Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a bear-stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appearance of your conjugal yoke-fellow.
[17]You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south-running spring or rivulet, where “three lairds' lands meet,” and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake, and sometime near midnight, an apparition having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it.
[17]You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south-running spring or rivulet, where “three lairds' lands meet,” and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake, and sometime near midnight, an apparition having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it.
[18]Take three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water in another; and leave the third empty: blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand: if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony, a maid: if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times; and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.
[18]Take three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water in another; and leave the third empty: blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand: if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony, a maid: if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times; and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.
[19]Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween supper.
[19]Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween supper.
InThe Twa Dogswe have an entirely different method. Burns here gives expression to his social philosophy in a contrast between rich and poor, and adds a quaint humor to his criticism by placing it in the mouths of the laird's Newfoundland and the cotter's collie. The dogs themselves are delightfully and vividly characterized, and their comments have a detachment that frees the satire from acerbity without rendering it tame. The account of the life of the idle rich may be that of a somewhat remote observer; it has still value as a record of how the peasant views the proprietor. But that of the hard-working farmer lacks no touch of actuality, and is part of the reverse side of the shield shown inThe Cotter's Saturday Night. Yet the tone is not querulous, but echoes rather the quiet conviction that if toil is hard it has its own sweetness, and that honest fatigue is better than boredom.
'Twas in that place o' Scotland's Isle,That bears the name o' auld King Coil,Upon a bonnie day in June,When wearin' through the afternoon,Twa dogs, that werena thrang at hame,busyForgather'd ance upon a time.MetThe first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar,Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure;His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,earsShow'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs,But whalpit some place far abroad,whelpedWhere sailors gang to fish for cod.His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar,Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar;But though he was o' high degree,The fient a pride, nae pride had he;devilBut wad hae spent are hour caressin'E'en wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messan:mongrelAt kirk or market, mill or smiddie,smithyNae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie,matted cur, raggedBut he wad stand as glad to see him,An' stroan'd on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.lantedThe tither was a ploughman's collie,otherA rhyming, ranting, raving billie;fellowWha for his friend and comrade had him,And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,After some dog in Highland sang,Was made lang syne—Lord knows how lang.He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,wise, dogAs ever lap a sheugh or dyke;leapt, ditch, wallHis honest sonsie, bawsent facepleasant, white-markedAye gat him friends in ilka place,everyHis breast was white, his tousie backshaggyWeel clad wi' coat o' glossy black:His gawsie tail, wi' upward curl,joyousHung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl.buttocksNae doubt but they were fain o' ither,gladAnd unco pack and thick thegither;intimateWi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit;Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit;moles, dugWhyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,And worried ither in diversion;Until wi' daffin' weary grown,merrimentUpon a knowe they sat them down,knollAnd there began a lang digressionAbout the lords of the creation.caesarI've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,What sort o' life poor dogs like you have;An' when the gentry's life I saw,What way poor bodies liv'd ava.at allOur Laird gets in his racked rents,His coals, his kain, and a' his stents;rent in kind, duesHe rises when he likes himsel';His flunkies answer at the bell:He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse;callsHe draws a bonny silken purseAs lang's my tail, where, through the steeks,stitchesThe yellow-letter'd Geordie keeks.guinea peepsFrae morn to e'en it's nought but toilingAt baking, roasting, frying, boiling;And though the gentry first are stechin',crammingYet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechanservants, bellyWi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie,rubbishThat's little short o' downright wastrie.wasteOur whipper-in, wee blastit wonner!wonderPoor worthless elf! it eats a dinnerBetter than ony tenant manHis Honour has in a' the lan';An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,put, paunchI own it's past my comprehension.luathTrowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash'd eneugh;troubledA cottar howkin' in a sheugh,digging, ditchWi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke,building, wallBaring a quarry, and sic like;clearingHimsel', a wife, he thus sustains,A smytrie o' wee duddy weans,brood, ragged childrenAnd nought but his han'-darg to keephand-laborThem right and tight in thack and rape.thatch, ropeAnd when they meet wi' sair disasters,soreLike loss o' health, or want o' masters,Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langeralmostAnd they maun starve o' cauld and hunger;mustBut how it comes I never kent yet.knewThey're maistly wonderfu' contented;An' buirdly chiels and clever hizziesstout lads, girlsAre bred in sic a way as this is.caesarBut then, to see how ye're negleckit,How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit,Lord, man! our gentry care sae littleFor delvers, ditchers and sic cattle;They gang as saucy by poor folkAs I wad by a stinking brock.badgerI've noticed, on our Laird's court-day,An' mony a time my heart's been wae.Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,How they maun thole a factor's snash;endure, abuseHe'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear,He'll apprehend them; poind their gear:seize, propertyWhile they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,mustAn' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!I see how folk live that hae riches;But surely poor folk maun be wretches!luathThey're no' sae wretched's ane wad think,Though constantly on poortith's brink:poverty'sThey're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,The view o't gi'es them little fright.Then chance and fortune are sae guided,They're aye in less or mair provided;An' though fatigued wi' close employment,A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.The dearest comfort o' their lives,Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives;growingThe prattling things are just their pride,That sweetens a' their fireside.And whyles twalpenny-worth o' nappyquart of aleCan mak the bodies unco happy;wonderfullyThey lay aside their private caresTo mind the Kirk and State affairs:They'll talk o' patronage and priests,Wi' kindling fury in their breasts;Or tell what new taxation's comin',And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.wonderAs bleak-faced Hallowmas returnsThey get the jovial rantin' kirns,harvest-homesWhen rural life o' every station.Unite in common recreation;Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social MirthForgets there's Care upo' the earth.That merry day the year beginsThey bar the door on frosty win's;The nappy reeks wi' mantling reamale, foamAnd sheds a heart-inspiring steam;The luntin' pipe and sneeshin'-millsmoking, snuff-boxAre handed round wi' right gude-will;The canty auld folk crackin' crouse,cheerful, talking brightlyThe young anes ranting through the house—My heart has been sae fain to see themThat I for joy hae barkit wi' them.Still it's owre true that ye hae said,Sic game is now owre aften play'd.too oftenThere's mony a creditable stockO' decent, honest, fawsont folk,well-doingAre riven out baith root and branchSome rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,Wha thinks to knit himsel the fasterIn favour wi' some gentle master,Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin',perhaps, busyFor Britain's gude his soul indentin—indenturingcaesarHaith, lad, ye little ken about it;For Britain's gude!—guid faith! I doubt it!Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,goingAnd saying ay or no's they bid him!At operas and plays parading,Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading.Or maybe, in a frolic daft,To Hague or Calais taks a waft,To make a tour, an' tak a whirl,To learnbon tonan' see the worl'.There, at Vienna, or Versailles,He rives his father's auld entails;splitsOr by Madrid he takes the rout,To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt;fight with bullsOr down Italian vista startles,coursesWhore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles;Then bouses drumly German water,muddyTo make himsel' look fair and fatter,And clear the consequential sorrows,Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.For Britain's gude!—for her destruction!Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction!luathHech man! dear sirs! is that the gatewayThey waste sae mony a braw estate?Are we sae foughten and harass'dtroubledFor gear to gang that gate at last?money, go, wayO would they stay aback frae courts,An' please themselves wi' country sports,It wad for every ane be better,The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter!For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies,thoseFient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows:Devil a bitExcept for breakin' o' their timmer,wasting, timberOr speaking lightly o' their limmer,mistressOr shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock,The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk.But will ye tell me, Master Caesar?Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure;Nae cauld nor hunger o'er can steer them.touchThe very thought o't needna fear them.caesarLord, man, were ye but whyles where I am,sometimesThe gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em,It's true, they needna starve or sweat,Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat;They've nae sair wark to craze their banes.hardAn' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes:gripes, groansBut human bodies are sic fools.For a' their colleges and schools,That when nae real ills perplex them,They make enow themselves to vex them,An' aye the less they hae to sturt them,fretIn like proportion less will hurt them.A country fellow at the pleugh,His acres till'd, he's right eneugh;A country lassie at her wheel,Her dizzens done, she's unco weel;dozensBut gentlemen, an' ladies warst,Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst,positiveThey loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy;Though de'il haet ails them, yet uneasy;devil a bitTheir days insipid, dull, and tasteless;Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless.And e'en their sports, their balls, and races,Their galloping through public places;There's sic parade, sic pomp and art,The joy can scarcely reach the heart.The men cast out in party matches,quarrelThen sowther a' in deep debauches:solderAe night they're mad wi' drink and whoring,OneNeist day their life is past enduring.NextThe ladies arm-in-arm, in clusters,As great and gracious a' as sisters;But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,They're a' run de'ils and jades thegither.downrightWhyles, owre the wee bit cup and platie,They sip the scandal-potion pretty;Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks,live-long, crabbed looksPore owre the devil's picture beuks;playing-cardsStake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard,And cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.There's some exception, man and woman;But this is gentry's life in common.By this the sun was out o' sight,And darker gloamin' brought the night;twilightThe bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone,cockchaferThe kye stood rowtin' i' the loan;cattle, lowing, laneWhen up they gat and shook their lugs,earsRejoiced they werena men but dogs;And each took aff his several way,Resolved to meet some ither day.
'Twas in that place o' Scotland's Isle,That bears the name o' auld King Coil,Upon a bonnie day in June,When wearin' through the afternoon,Twa dogs, that werena thrang at hame,busyForgather'd ance upon a time.Met
'Twas in that place o' Scotland's Isle,
That bears the name o' auld King Coil,
Upon a bonnie day in June,
When wearin' through the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that werena thrang at hame,busy
Forgather'd ance upon a time.Met
The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar,Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure;His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,earsShow'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs,But whalpit some place far abroad,whelpedWhere sailors gang to fish for cod.His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar,Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar;
The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar,
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure;
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,ears
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs,
But whalpit some place far abroad,whelped
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar,
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,The fient a pride, nae pride had he;devilBut wad hae spent are hour caressin'E'en wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messan:mongrelAt kirk or market, mill or smiddie,smithyNae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie,matted cur, raggedBut he wad stand as glad to see him,An' stroan'd on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.lanted
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride, nae pride had he;devil
But wad hae spent are hour caressin'
E'en wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messan:mongrel
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,smithy
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie,matted cur, ragged
But he wad stand as glad to see him,
An' stroan'd on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.lanted
The tither was a ploughman's collie,otherA rhyming, ranting, raving billie;fellowWha for his friend and comrade had him,And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,After some dog in Highland sang,Was made lang syne—Lord knows how lang.
The tither was a ploughman's collie,other
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie;fellow
Wha for his friend and comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang,
Was made lang syne—Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,wise, dogAs ever lap a sheugh or dyke;leapt, ditch, wallHis honest sonsie, bawsent facepleasant, white-markedAye gat him friends in ilka place,everyHis breast was white, his tousie backshaggyWeel clad wi' coat o' glossy black:His gawsie tail, wi' upward curl,joyousHung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl.buttocks
He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,wise, dog
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke;leapt, ditch, wall
His honest sonsie, bawsent facepleasant, white-marked
Aye gat him friends in ilka place,every
His breast was white, his tousie backshaggy
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black:
His gawsie tail, wi' upward curl,joyous
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl.buttocks
Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,gladAnd unco pack and thick thegither;intimateWi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit;Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit;moles, dugWhyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,And worried ither in diversion;Until wi' daffin' weary grown,merrimentUpon a knowe they sat them down,knollAnd there began a lang digressionAbout the lords of the creation.
Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,glad
And unco pack and thick thegither;intimate
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit;
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit;moles, dug
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
And worried ither in diversion;
Until wi' daffin' weary grown,merriment
Upon a knowe they sat them down,knoll
And there began a lang digression
About the lords of the creation.
caesar
caesar
I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,What sort o' life poor dogs like you have;An' when the gentry's life I saw,What way poor bodies liv'd ava.at allOur Laird gets in his racked rents,His coals, his kain, and a' his stents;rent in kind, duesHe rises when he likes himsel';His flunkies answer at the bell:He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse;callsHe draws a bonny silken purseAs lang's my tail, where, through the steeks,stitchesThe yellow-letter'd Geordie keeks.guinea peepsFrae morn to e'en it's nought but toilingAt baking, roasting, frying, boiling;And though the gentry first are stechin',crammingYet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechanservants, bellyWi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie,rubbishThat's little short o' downright wastrie.wasteOur whipper-in, wee blastit wonner!wonderPoor worthless elf! it eats a dinnerBetter than ony tenant manHis Honour has in a' the lan';An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,put, paunchI own it's past my comprehension.
I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have;
An' when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv'd ava.at all
Our Laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents;rent in kind, dues
He rises when he likes himsel';
His flunkies answer at the bell:
He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse;calls
He draws a bonny silken purse
As lang's my tail, where, through the steeks,stitches
The yellow-letter'd Geordie keeks.guinea peeps
Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
And though the gentry first are stechin',cramming
Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechanservants, belly
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie,rubbish
That's little short o' downright wastrie.waste
Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner!wonder
Poor worthless elf! it eats a dinner
Better than ony tenant man
His Honour has in a' the lan';
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,put, paunch
I own it's past my comprehension.
luath
luath
Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash'd eneugh;troubledA cottar howkin' in a sheugh,digging, ditchWi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke,building, wallBaring a quarry, and sic like;clearingHimsel', a wife, he thus sustains,A smytrie o' wee duddy weans,brood, ragged childrenAnd nought but his han'-darg to keephand-laborThem right and tight in thack and rape.thatch, ropeAnd when they meet wi' sair disasters,soreLike loss o' health, or want o' masters,Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langeralmostAnd they maun starve o' cauld and hunger;mustBut how it comes I never kent yet.knewThey're maistly wonderfu' contented;An' buirdly chiels and clever hizziesstout lads, girlsAre bred in sic a way as this is.
Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash'd eneugh;troubled
A cottar howkin' in a sheugh,digging, ditch
Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke,building, wall
Baring a quarry, and sic like;clearing
Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddy weans,brood, ragged children
And nought but his han'-darg to keephand-labor
Them right and tight in thack and rape.thatch, rope
And when they meet wi' sair disasters,sore
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langeralmost
And they maun starve o' cauld and hunger;must
But how it comes I never kent yet.knew
They're maistly wonderfu' contented;
An' buirdly chiels and clever hizziesstout lads, girls
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
caesar
caesar
But then, to see how ye're negleckit,How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit,Lord, man! our gentry care sae littleFor delvers, ditchers and sic cattle;They gang as saucy by poor folkAs I wad by a stinking brock.badgerI've noticed, on our Laird's court-day,An' mony a time my heart's been wae.Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,How they maun thole a factor's snash;endure, abuseHe'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear,He'll apprehend them; poind their gear:seize, propertyWhile they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,mustAn' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!I see how folk live that hae riches;But surely poor folk maun be wretches!
But then, to see how ye're negleckit,
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit,
Lord, man! our gentry care sae little
For delvers, ditchers and sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk
As I wad by a stinking brock.badger
I've noticed, on our Laird's court-day,
An' mony a time my heart's been wae.
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash;endure, abuse
He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear,
He'll apprehend them; poind their gear:seize, property
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,must
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!
I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor folk maun be wretches!
luath
luath
They're no' sae wretched's ane wad think,Though constantly on poortith's brink:poverty'sThey're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,The view o't gi'es them little fright.Then chance and fortune are sae guided,They're aye in less or mair provided;An' though fatigued wi' close employment,A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.The dearest comfort o' their lives,Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives;growingThe prattling things are just their pride,That sweetens a' their fireside.And whyles twalpenny-worth o' nappyquart of aleCan mak the bodies unco happy;wonderfullyThey lay aside their private caresTo mind the Kirk and State affairs:They'll talk o' patronage and priests,Wi' kindling fury in their breasts;Or tell what new taxation's comin',And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.wonderAs bleak-faced Hallowmas returnsThey get the jovial rantin' kirns,harvest-homesWhen rural life o' every station.Unite in common recreation;Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social MirthForgets there's Care upo' the earth.That merry day the year beginsThey bar the door on frosty win's;The nappy reeks wi' mantling reamale, foamAnd sheds a heart-inspiring steam;The luntin' pipe and sneeshin'-millsmoking, snuff-boxAre handed round wi' right gude-will;The canty auld folk crackin' crouse,cheerful, talking brightlyThe young anes ranting through the house—My heart has been sae fain to see themThat I for joy hae barkit wi' them.Still it's owre true that ye hae said,Sic game is now owre aften play'd.too oftenThere's mony a creditable stockO' decent, honest, fawsont folk,well-doingAre riven out baith root and branchSome rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,Wha thinks to knit himsel the fasterIn favour wi' some gentle master,Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin',perhaps, busyFor Britain's gude his soul indentin—indenturing
They're no' sae wretched's ane wad think,
Though constantly on poortith's brink:poverty's
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,
The view o't gi'es them little fright.
Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided;
An' though fatigued wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives;growing
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fireside.
And whyles twalpenny-worth o' nappyquart of ale
Can mak the bodies unco happy;wonderfully
They lay aside their private cares
To mind the Kirk and State affairs:
They'll talk o' patronage and priests,
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts;
Or tell what new taxation's comin',
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.wonder
As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns
They get the jovial rantin' kirns,harvest-homes
When rural life o' every station.
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.
That merry day the year begins
They bar the door on frosty win's;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling reamale, foam
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin' pipe and sneeshin'-millsmoking, snuff-box
Are handed round wi' right gude-will;
The canty auld folk crackin' crouse,cheerful, talking brightly
The young anes ranting through the house—
My heart has been sae fain to see them
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.
Still it's owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play'd.too often
There's mony a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk,well-doing
Are riven out baith root and branch
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin',perhaps, busy
For Britain's gude his soul indentin—indenturing
caesar
caesar
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it;For Britain's gude!—guid faith! I doubt it!Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,goingAnd saying ay or no's they bid him!At operas and plays parading,Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading.Or maybe, in a frolic daft,To Hague or Calais taks a waft,To make a tour, an' tak a whirl,To learnbon tonan' see the worl'.There, at Vienna, or Versailles,He rives his father's auld entails;splitsOr by Madrid he takes the rout,To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt;fight with bullsOr down Italian vista startles,coursesWhore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles;Then bouses drumly German water,muddyTo make himsel' look fair and fatter,And clear the consequential sorrows,Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.For Britain's gude!—for her destruction!Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction!
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it;
For Britain's gude!—guid faith! I doubt it!
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,going
And saying ay or no's they bid him!
At operas and plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading.
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,
To Hague or Calais taks a waft,
To make a tour, an' tak a whirl,
To learnbon tonan' see the worl'.
There, at Vienna, or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails;splits
Or by Madrid he takes the rout,
To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt;fight with bulls
Or down Italian vista startles,courses
Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles;
Then bouses drumly German water,muddy
To make himsel' look fair and fatter,
And clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain's gude!—for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction!
luath
luath
Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gatewayThey waste sae mony a braw estate?Are we sae foughten and harass'dtroubledFor gear to gang that gate at last?money, go, wayO would they stay aback frae courts,An' please themselves wi' country sports,It wad for every ane be better,The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter!For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies,thoseFient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows:Devil a bitExcept for breakin' o' their timmer,wasting, timberOr speaking lightly o' their limmer,mistressOr shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock,The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk.But will ye tell me, Master Caesar?Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure;Nae cauld nor hunger o'er can steer them.touchThe very thought o't needna fear them.
Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gateway
They waste sae mony a braw estate?
Are we sae foughten and harass'dtroubled
For gear to gang that gate at last?money, go, way
O would they stay aback frae courts,
An' please themselves wi' country sports,
It wad for every ane be better,
The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies,those
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows:Devil a bit
Except for breakin' o' their timmer,wasting, timber
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer,mistress
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me, Master Caesar?
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure;
Nae cauld nor hunger o'er can steer them.touch
The very thought o't needna fear them.
caesar
caesar
Lord, man, were ye but whyles where I am,sometimesThe gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em,It's true, they needna starve or sweat,Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat;They've nae sair wark to craze their banes.hardAn' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes:gripes, groansBut human bodies are sic fools.For a' their colleges and schools,That when nae real ills perplex them,They make enow themselves to vex them,An' aye the less they hae to sturt them,fretIn like proportion less will hurt them.A country fellow at the pleugh,His acres till'd, he's right eneugh;A country lassie at her wheel,Her dizzens done, she's unco weel;dozensBut gentlemen, an' ladies warst,Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst,positiveThey loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy;Though de'il haet ails them, yet uneasy;devil a bitTheir days insipid, dull, and tasteless;Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless.And e'en their sports, their balls, and races,Their galloping through public places;There's sic parade, sic pomp and art,The joy can scarcely reach the heart.The men cast out in party matches,quarrelThen sowther a' in deep debauches:solderAe night they're mad wi' drink and whoring,OneNeist day their life is past enduring.NextThe ladies arm-in-arm, in clusters,As great and gracious a' as sisters;But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,They're a' run de'ils and jades thegither.downrightWhyles, owre the wee bit cup and platie,They sip the scandal-potion pretty;Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks,live-long, crabbed looksPore owre the devil's picture beuks;playing-cardsStake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard,And cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.There's some exception, man and woman;But this is gentry's life in common.
Lord, man, were ye but whyles where I am,sometimes
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em,
It's true, they needna starve or sweat,
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat;
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes.hard
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes:gripes, groans
But human bodies are sic fools.
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They make enow themselves to vex them,
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them,fret
In like proportion less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh;
A country lassie at her wheel,
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel;dozens
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst,
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst,positive
They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy;
Though de'il haet ails them, yet uneasy;devil a bit
Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless.
And e'en their sports, their balls, and races,
Their galloping through public places;
There's sic parade, sic pomp and art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches,quarrel
Then sowther a' in deep debauches:solder
Ae night they're mad wi' drink and whoring,One
Neist day their life is past enduring.Next
The ladies arm-in-arm, in clusters,
As great and gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run de'ils and jades thegither.downright
Whyles, owre the wee bit cup and platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks,live-long, crabbed looks
Pore owre the devil's picture beuks;playing-cards
Stake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard,
And cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.
There's some exception, man and woman;
But this is gentry's life in common.
By this the sun was out o' sight,And darker gloamin' brought the night;twilightThe bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone,cockchaferThe kye stood rowtin' i' the loan;cattle, lowing, laneWhen up they gat and shook their lugs,earsRejoiced they werena men but dogs;And each took aff his several way,Resolved to meet some ither day.
By this the sun was out o' sight,
And darker gloamin' brought the night;twilight
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone,cockchafer
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan;cattle, lowing, lane
When up they gat and shook their lugs,ears
Rejoiced they werena men but dogs;
And each took aff his several way,
Resolved to meet some ither day.
The satirical tendency becomes more evident inThe Holy Fair. The personifications whom the poet meets on the way to the religious orgy are Superstition, Hypocrisy, and Fun, and symbolize exactly the elements in his treatment—two-thirds satire and one-third humorous sympathy.The handling of the preachers is in the manner we have already observed in the other ecclesiastical satires, but there is less animus and more vividness. Nothing could be more admirable in its way than the realism of the picture of the congregation, whether at the sermons or at their refreshments; and, as inHalloween, the union of the particular and the universal appears in the essential applicability of the psychology to an American camp-meeting as well as to a Scottish sacrament—
There's some are fou o' love divine,There's some are fou o' brandy.
There's some are fou o' love divine,There's some are fou o' brandy.
There's some are fou o' love divine,
There's some are fou o' brandy.
—not to finish the stanza!
A robe of seeming truth and trustHid crafty Observation;And secret hung, with poison'd crust,The dirk of Defamation: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.freshThe risin' sun, owre Galston muirs,Wi' glorious light was glintin';The hares were hirplin' down the furrs,limping, furrowsThe lav'rocks they were chantin'larksFu' sweet that day.As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,staredTo see a scene sae gay,Three hizzies, early at the road,girlsCam skelpin' up the way.scuddingTwa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,But ane wi' lyart lining;grayThe third, that gaed a wee a-back,went a littleWas in the fashion shiningFu' gay that day.The twa appeared like sisters twin,In feature, form, an' claes;Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin,An' sour as ony slaes:sloesThe third cam up, hap-stap-an'-lowp,hop-step-and-jumpAs light as ony lambie,An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,curtseyAs soon as e'er she saw me,Fu' kind that day.Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, ‘Sweet lass,I think ye seem to ken me;I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,But yet I canna name ye.’Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak,An' taks me by the hands,‘Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feckmostOf a' the ten commandsA screed some day.rent‘My name is Fun—your crony dear,The nearest friend ye hae;An' this is Superstition here,An' that's Hypocrisy.I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,To spend an hour in daffin';mirthGin ye'll go there, yon runkled 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,shirtAn' meet you on the holy spot;Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!’Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,porridgeAn' soon I made me ready;For roads were clad, frae side to side,Wi' mony a wearie bodieIn droves that day.Here farmers gash in ridin' graithcomplacent, attireGaed hoddin' by their cotters;joggingThere swankies young in braw braid-claithstrapping youngstersAre springin' owre the gutters.overThe lasses, skelpin' barefit, thrang,padding, in crowdsIn silks an' scarlets glitter,Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,sliceAn' farls bak'd wi' butter,cakesFu' crump that day.crispWhen by the plate we set our nose,Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,A greedy glow'r Black Bonnet throws,the elderAn' we maun draw our tippence.Then in we go to see the show:On ev'ry side they're gath'rin';Some carryin' deals, some chairs an' stools,planksAn' some are busy bleth'rin'gabblingRight loud that day.Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,keep offAn' screen our country gentry;There racer Jess an' twa-three whoresAre blinkin' at the entry.Here sits a raw o' tittlin' jades,whisperingWi' heavin' breasts an' bare neck,An' there a batch o' wabster lads,weaverBlackguardin' frae KilmarnockFor fun this day.Here some are thinkin' on their sins,An' some upo' their claes;clothesAne curses feet that fyl'd his shins,soiledAnither sighs an' prays:On this hand sits a chosen swatch,sampleWi' screw'd up, grace-proud faces;On that a set o' chaps, at watch,Thrang winkin' on the lassesBusyTo chairs that day.O happy is that man an' blest!Nae wonder that it pride him!Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,Comes clinkin' down beside him!Sits snuglyWi' arm repos'd on the chair-backHe sweetly does compose him;Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,An's loof upon her bosom,And his palmUnkenn'd that day.UnacknowledgedNow a' the congregation o'erIs silent expectation;For Moodie speels the holy door,climbs toWi' tidings o' damnation,Should Hornie, as in ancient days,Satan'Mang sons o' God present him,The very sight o' Moodie's faceTo's ain het hame had sent himhis own hotWi' fright that day.Hear how he clears the points o' faithWi' rattlin' an' 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 squeal an' gestures,weirdO how they fire the heart devout,Like cantharidian plaisters,On sic a day!suchBut, 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 opens out his cauld harangues,A New LightOn practice and on morals;An' aff the godly pour in thrangsTo gie the jars an' barrelsgiveA lift that day.What signifies his barren shineOf moral pow'rs an' reason?His English style an' gesture fineAre 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 inThat's right that day.In guid time comes an antidoteAgainst sic poison'd nostrum;For Peebles, frae the water-fit,river-mouthAscends the holy rostrum:See, up he's got the word o' God,An' meek an' mim has view'd it,primWhile Common Sense[20]has ta'en the road,An' aff, an' up the CowgateFast, fast, that day.Wee Miller, neist, the Guard relieves,nextAn' Orthodoxy raibles,rattles by roteTho' in his heart he weel believesAn' thinks it auld wives' fables:But, faith! the birkie wants a Manse,fellowSo cannilie he hums them;prudently, humbugsAltho' his carnal wit an' senseLike hafflins-wise o'ercomes himnearly halfAt times that day.Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills,outer and inner roomsWi' yill-caup Commentators;ale-cupHere's crying out for bakes an' gills,rollsAn' there the pint-stowp clatters;While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,busyWi' logic, an' wi' Scripture,They raise a din, that in the endIs like to breed a ruptureO' wrath that day.Leeze me on drink! it gi'es us mairblessings onThan either school or college;It kindles wit, it waukens lair,learningIt pangs us fou o' knowledge.crams fullBe't whisky gill, or penny wheep,small beerOr ony stronger potion,It never fails, on drinkin' deep,To kittle up our notiontickleBy night or day.The lads an' lasses, blythely bentTo mind baith saul an' body,Sit round the table, weel content,An' steer about the toddy.stirOn this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk,lookThey're makin observations;While some are cosy i' the neuk,cornerAn' formin' assignationsTo meet some day.But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,soundsTill a' the hills are rairin',roaringAn' echoes back return the shouts;Black Russel is na sparin';His piercing words, like Highlan' swords,Divide the joints an' marrow;His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell,Our very ‘sauls does harrow’Wi' fright that day!A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane,full, flaming brimstoneWhase ragin' flame, an' scorchin' heat,Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!The half-asleep start up wi' fearAn' think they hear it roarin'When presently it does appear'Twas but some neebor snorin'Asleep that day.'Twad be owre lang a tale to tellHow mony stories past,An' how they crowded to the yill,aleWhen they were a' dismist;How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,wooden drinking vesselsAmang the furms and benches;An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,Was dealt about in lunches,full portionsAn' dawds that day.lumpsIn comes a gawsie, gash guidwife,jolly, sensibleAn' sits down by the fire,Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife;Then, cheeseThe lasses they are shyer.The auld guidmen, about the grace,Frae side to side they bother,Till some are by his bonnet lays,An' gi'es them't like a tether,ropeFu' lang that day.Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,Alas!Or lasses that hae naething!Sma' need has he to say a grace,Or melvie his braw claithing!make dustyO wives, be mindful, ance yourselHow bonnie lads ye wanted,An' dinna for a kebbuck-heelLet lasses be affrontedOn sic a day!suchNow Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow,Bell-ringer, ropeBegins to jow an' croon;swing, tollSome swagger hame the best they dow,canSome wait the afternoon.At slaps the billies halt a blink,gaps, kidsTill lasses strip their shoon;Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,shoesThey're a' in famous tuneFor crack that day.chatHow mony hearts this day convertsO' sinners and o' lasses!Their hearts o' static, gin night, are ganebeforeAs saft as ony flesh is.There's some are fou o' love divine,There's some are fou o' brandy;An' mony jobs that day begin,May end in houghmagandiefornicationSome ither day.
A robe of seeming truth and trustHid crafty Observation;And secret hung, with poison'd crust,The dirk of Defamation: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.
A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty Observation;
And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
The dirk of Defamation:
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.freshThe risin' sun, owre Galston muirs,Wi' glorious light was glintin';The hares were hirplin' down the furrs,limping, furrowsThe lav'rocks they were chantin'larksFu' sweet that day.
Upon a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
An' snuff the caller air.fresh
The risin' sun, owre Galston muirs,
Wi' glorious light was glintin';
The hares were hirplin' down the furrs,limping, furrows
The lav'rocks they were chantin'larks
Fu' sweet that day.
As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,staredTo see a scene sae gay,Three hizzies, early at the road,girlsCam skelpin' up the way.scuddingTwa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,But ane wi' lyart lining;grayThe third, that gaed a wee a-back,went a littleWas in the fashion shiningFu' gay that day.
As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,stared
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,girls
Cam skelpin' up the way.scudding
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
But ane wi' lyart lining;gray
The third, that gaed a wee a-back,went a little
Was in the fashion shining
Fu' gay that day.
The twa appeared like sisters twin,In feature, form, an' claes;Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin,An' sour as ony slaes:sloesThe third cam up, hap-stap-an'-lowp,hop-step-and-jumpAs light as ony lambie,An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,curtseyAs soon as e'er she saw me,Fu' kind that day.
The twa appeared like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes;
Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin,
An' sour as ony slaes:sloes
The third cam up, hap-stap-an'-lowp,hop-step-and-jump
As light as ony lambie,
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,curtsey
As soon as e'er she saw me,
Fu' kind that day.
Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, ‘Sweet lass,I think ye seem to ken me;I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,But yet I canna name ye.’Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak,An' taks me by the hands,‘Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feckmostOf a' the ten commandsA screed some day.rent
Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, ‘Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,
But yet I canna name ye.’
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak,
An' taks me by the hands,
‘Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feckmost
Of a' the ten commands
A screed some day.rent
‘My name is Fun—your crony dear,The nearest friend ye hae;An' this is Superstition here,An' that's Hypocrisy.I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,To spend an hour in daffin';mirthGin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair,We will get famous laughin'At them this day.’
‘My name is Fun—your crony dear,
The nearest friend ye hae;
An' this is Superstition here,
An' that's Hypocrisy.
I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
To spend an hour in daffin';mirth
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled 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,shirtAn' meet you on the holy spot;Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!’Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,porridgeAn' soon I made me ready;For roads were clad, frae side to side,Wi' mony a wearie bodieIn droves that day.
Quoth I, ‘Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't;
I'll get my Sunday's sark on,shirt
An' meet you on the holy spot;
Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!’
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,porridge
An' soon I made me ready;
For roads were clad, frae side to side,
Wi' mony a wearie bodie
In droves that day.
Here farmers gash in ridin' graithcomplacent, attireGaed hoddin' by their cotters;joggingThere swankies young in braw braid-claithstrapping youngstersAre springin' owre the gutters.overThe lasses, skelpin' barefit, thrang,padding, in crowdsIn silks an' scarlets glitter,Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,sliceAn' farls bak'd wi' butter,cakesFu' crump that day.crisp
Here farmers gash in ridin' graithcomplacent, attire
Gaed hoddin' by their cotters;jogging
There swankies young in braw braid-claithstrapping youngsters
Are springin' owre the gutters.over
The lasses, skelpin' barefit, thrang,padding, in crowds
In silks an' scarlets glitter,
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,slice
An' farls bak'd wi' butter,cakes
Fu' crump that day.crisp
When by the plate we set our nose,Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,A greedy glow'r Black Bonnet throws,the elderAn' we maun draw our tippence.Then in we go to see the show:On ev'ry side they're gath'rin';Some carryin' deals, some chairs an' stools,planksAn' some are busy bleth'rin'gabblingRight loud that day.
When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,
A greedy glow'r Black Bonnet throws,the elder
An' we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show:
On ev'ry side they're gath'rin';
Some carryin' deals, some chairs an' stools,planks
An' some are busy bleth'rin'gabbling
Right loud that day.
Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,keep offAn' screen our country gentry;There racer Jess an' twa-three whoresAre blinkin' at the entry.Here sits a raw o' tittlin' jades,whisperingWi' heavin' breasts an' bare neck,An' there a batch o' wabster lads,weaverBlackguardin' frae KilmarnockFor fun this day.
Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,keep off
An' screen our country gentry;
There racer Jess an' twa-three whores
Are blinkin' at the entry.
Here sits a raw o' tittlin' jades,whispering
Wi' heavin' breasts an' bare neck,
An' there a batch o' wabster lads,weaver
Blackguardin' frae Kilmarnock
For fun this day.
Here some are thinkin' on their sins,An' some upo' their claes;clothesAne curses feet that fyl'd his shins,soiledAnither sighs an' prays:On this hand sits a chosen swatch,sampleWi' screw'd up, grace-proud faces;On that a set o' chaps, at watch,Thrang winkin' on the lassesBusyTo chairs that day.
Here some are thinkin' on their sins,
An' some upo' their claes;clothes
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins,soiled
Anither sighs an' prays:
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,sample
Wi' screw'd up, grace-proud faces;
On that a set o' chaps, at watch,
Thrang winkin' on the lassesBusy
To chairs that day.
O happy is that man an' blest!Nae wonder that it pride him!Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,Comes clinkin' down beside him!Sits snuglyWi' arm repos'd on the chair-backHe sweetly does compose him;Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,An's loof upon her bosom,And his palmUnkenn'd that day.Unacknowledged
O happy is that man an' blest!
Nae wonder that it pride him!
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,
Comes clinkin' down beside him!Sits snugly
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back
He sweetly does compose him;
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
An's loof upon her bosom,And his palm
Unkenn'd that day.Unacknowledged
Now a' the congregation o'erIs silent expectation;For Moodie speels the holy door,climbs toWi' tidings o' damnation,Should Hornie, as in ancient days,Satan'Mang sons o' God present him,The very sight o' Moodie's faceTo's ain het hame had sent himhis own hotWi' fright that day.
Now a' the congregation o'er
Is silent expectation;
For Moodie speels the holy door,climbs to
Wi' tidings o' damnation,
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,Satan
'Mang sons o' God present him,
The very sight o' Moodie's face
To's ain het hame had sent himhis own hot
Wi' fright that day.
Hear how he clears the points o' faithWi' rattlin' an' 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 squeal an' gestures,weirdO how they fire the heart devout,Like cantharidian plaisters,On sic a day!such
Hear how he clears the points o' faith
Wi' rattlin' an' 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 squeal an' gestures,weird
O how they fire the heart devout,
Like cantharidian plaisters,
On sic a day!such
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 opens out his cauld harangues,A New LightOn practice and on morals;An' aff the godly pour in thrangsTo gie the jars an' barrelsgiveA lift that 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 opens out his cauld harangues,A New Light
On practice and on morals;
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs
To gie the jars an' barrelsgive
A lift that day.
What signifies his barren shineOf moral pow'rs an' reason?His English style an' gesture fineAre 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 inThat's right that day.
What signifies his barren shine
Of moral pow'rs 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 antidoteAgainst sic poison'd nostrum;For Peebles, frae the water-fit,river-mouthAscends the holy rostrum:See, up he's got the word o' God,An' meek an' mim has view'd it,primWhile Common Sense[20]has ta'en the road,An' aff, an' up the CowgateFast, fast, that day.
In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison'd nostrum;
For Peebles, frae the water-fit,river-mouth
Ascends the holy rostrum:
See, up he's got the word o' God,
An' meek an' mim has view'd it,prim
While Common Sense[20]has ta'en the road,
An' aff, an' up the Cowgate
Fast, fast, that day.
Wee Miller, neist, the Guard relieves,nextAn' Orthodoxy raibles,rattles by roteTho' in his heart he weel believesAn' thinks it auld wives' fables:But, faith! the birkie wants a Manse,fellowSo cannilie he hums them;prudently, humbugsAltho' his carnal wit an' senseLike hafflins-wise o'ercomes himnearly halfAt times that day.
Wee Miller, neist, the Guard relieves,next
An' Orthodoxy raibles,rattles by rote
Tho' in his heart he weel believes
An' thinks it auld wives' fables:
But, faith! the birkie wants a Manse,fellow
So cannilie he hums them;prudently, humbugs
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense
Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes himnearly half
At times that day.
Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills,outer and inner roomsWi' yill-caup Commentators;ale-cupHere's crying out for bakes an' gills,rollsAn' there the pint-stowp clatters;While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,busyWi' logic, an' wi' Scripture,They raise a din, that in the endIs like to breed a ruptureO' wrath that day.
Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills,outer and inner rooms
Wi' yill-caup Commentators;ale-cup
Here's crying out for bakes an' gills,rolls
An' there the pint-stowp clatters;
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,busy
Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture,
They raise a din, that in the end
Is like to breed a rupture
O' wrath that day.
Leeze me on drink! it gi'es us mairblessings onThan either school or college;It kindles wit, it waukens lair,learningIt pangs us fou o' knowledge.crams fullBe't whisky gill, or penny wheep,small beerOr ony stronger potion,It never fails, on drinkin' deep,To kittle up our notiontickleBy night or day.
Leeze me on drink! it gi'es us mairblessings on
Than either school or college;
It kindles wit, it waukens lair,learning
It pangs us fou o' knowledge.crams full
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep,small beer
Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, on drinkin' deep,
To kittle up our notiontickle
By night or day.
The lads an' lasses, blythely bentTo mind baith saul an' body,Sit round the table, weel content,An' steer about the toddy.stirOn this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk,lookThey're makin observations;While some are cosy i' the neuk,cornerAn' formin' assignationsTo meet some day.
The lads an' lasses, blythely bent
To mind baith saul an' body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
An' steer about the toddy.stir
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk,look
They're makin observations;
While some are cosy i' the neuk,corner
An' formin' assignations
To meet some day.
But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,soundsTill a' the hills are rairin',roaringAn' echoes back return the shouts;Black Russel is na sparin';His piercing words, like Highlan' swords,Divide the joints an' marrow;His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell,Our very ‘sauls does harrow’Wi' fright that day!
But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,sounds
Till a' the hills are rairin',roaring
An' echoes back return the shouts;
Black Russel is na sparin';
His piercing words, like Highlan' swords,
Divide the joints an' marrow;
His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell,
Our very ‘sauls does harrow’
Wi' fright that day!
A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane,full, flaming brimstoneWhase ragin' flame, an' scorchin' heat,Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!The half-asleep start up wi' fearAn' think they hear it roarin'When presently it does appear'Twas but some neebor snorin'Asleep that day.
A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane,full, flaming brimstone
Whase ragin' flame, an' scorchin' heat,
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
The half-asleep start up wi' fear
An' think they hear it roarin'
When presently it does appear
'Twas but some neebor snorin'
Asleep that day.
'Twad be owre lang a tale to tellHow mony stories past,An' how they crowded to the yill,aleWhen they were a' dismist;How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,wooden drinking vesselsAmang the furms and benches;An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,Was dealt about in lunches,full portionsAn' dawds that day.lumps
'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell
How mony stories past,
An' how they crowded to the yill,ale
When they were a' dismist;
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,wooden drinking vessels
Amang the furms and benches;
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,
Was dealt about in lunches,full portions
An' dawds that day.lumps
In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife,jolly, sensibleAn' sits down by the fire,Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife;Then, cheeseThe lasses they are shyer.The auld guidmen, about the grace,Frae side to side they bother,Till some are by his bonnet lays,An' gi'es them't like a tether,ropeFu' lang that day.
In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife,jolly, sensible
An' sits down by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife;Then, cheese
The lasses they are shyer.
The auld guidmen, about the grace,
Frae side to side they bother,
Till some are by his bonnet lays,
An' gi'es them't like a tether,rope
Fu' lang that day.
Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,Alas!Or lasses that hae naething!Sma' need has he to say a grace,Or melvie his braw claithing!make dustyO wives, be mindful, ance yourselHow bonnie lads ye wanted,An' dinna for a kebbuck-heelLet lasses be affrontedOn sic a day!such
Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,Alas!
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma' need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!make dusty
O wives, be mindful, ance yoursel
How bonnie lads ye wanted,
An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel
Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day!such
Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow,Bell-ringer, ropeBegins to jow an' croon;swing, tollSome swagger hame the best they dow,canSome wait the afternoon.At slaps the billies halt a blink,gaps, kidsTill lasses strip their shoon;Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,shoesThey're a' in famous tuneFor crack that day.chat
Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow,Bell-ringer, rope
Begins to jow an' croon;swing, toll
Some swagger hame the best they dow,can
Some wait the afternoon.
At slaps the billies halt a blink,gaps, kids
Till lasses strip their shoon;
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,shoes
They're a' in famous tune
For crack that day.chat
How mony hearts this day convertsO' sinners and o' lasses!Their hearts o' static, gin night, are ganebeforeAs saft as ony flesh is.There's some are fou o' love divine,There's some are fou o' brandy;An' mony jobs that day begin,May end in houghmagandiefornicationSome ither day.
How mony hearts this day converts
O' sinners and o' lasses!
Their hearts o' static, gin night, are ganebefore
As saft as ony flesh is.
There's some are fou o' love divine,
There's some are fou o' brandy;
An' mony jobs that day begin,
May end in houghmagandiefornication
Some ither day.
[20]The rationalism of the New Lights.
[20]The rationalism of the New Lights.
It must be admitted that, as we pass from poem to poem, Scottish manners are becoming freer, Scottish drink is more potent, Scottish religion is no longer pure and undefiled. Yet the poethardly seems to be at a disadvantage. He certainly is no less interesting; he impresses our imaginations and rouses our sympathetic understanding as keenly as ever; there is no abatement of our esthetic relish.
We have seen the Ayrshire peasant alone with his family, at social gatherings, and at church. We have to see him with his cronies and at the tavern. Scotch manners and Scotch religion we know now; it is the turn of Scotch drink. The spirit of that conviviality which was one of Burns's ruling passions, and which in his class helped to color the grayness of daily hardship, was rendered by him in verse again and again: never more triumphantly than in the greatest of his bacchanalian songs,Willie Brew'd a Peck o' Maut. Indeed it would be hard to find anywhere in our literature a more revealing utterance of those effects of alcohol that are not discussed in scientific literature—the joyous exhilaration, the conviction of (comparative) sobriety, the temporary intensification of the feeling of good fellowship. The challenge to the moon is unsurpassable in its unconscious humor. Yet Arnold thought the world of Scotch drink unbeautiful.
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,maltAnd Rob and Allan cam to see;Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,live-longYe wad na found in Christendie.would not have, ChristendomWe are na fou', we're nae that fou,drunkBut just a drappie in our e'e;dropletThe cock may craw, the day may daw,crow, dawnAnd aye we'll taste the barley-bree.brewHere are we met, three merry boys,Three merry boys, I trow, are we;And mony a night we've merry been,And mony mae we hope to be!moreIt is the moon, I ken her horn,That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;shining, sky, highShe shines sae bright to wyle us hame,enticeBut, by my sooth! she'll wait a wee.Wha first shall rise to gang awa,goA cuckold, coward loun is he!rascalWha first beside his chair shall fa',He is the King amang us three!
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,maltAnd Rob and Allan cam to see;Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,live-longYe wad na found in Christendie.would not have, Christendom
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,malt
And Rob and Allan cam to see;
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,live-long
Ye wad na found in Christendie.would not have, Christendom
We are na fou', we're nae that fou,drunkBut just a drappie in our e'e;dropletThe cock may craw, the day may daw,crow, dawnAnd aye we'll taste the barley-bree.brew
We are na fou', we're nae that fou,drunk
But just a drappie in our e'e;droplet
The cock may craw, the day may daw,crow, dawn
And aye we'll taste the barley-bree.brew
Here are we met, three merry boys,Three merry boys, I trow, are we;And mony a night we've merry been,And mony mae we hope to be!more
Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys, I trow, are we;
And mony a night we've merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!more
It is the moon, I ken her horn,That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;shining, sky, highShe shines sae bright to wyle us hame,enticeBut, by my sooth! she'll wait a wee.
It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;shining, sky, high
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,entice
But, by my sooth! she'll wait a wee.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,goA cuckold, coward loun is he!rascalWha first beside his chair shall fa',He is the King amang us three!
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,go
A cuckold, coward loun is he!rascal
Wha first beside his chair shall fa',
He is the King amang us three!
With greater daring and on a broader canvas Burns has dealt with the same subject inThe Jolly Beggars. For the literary treatment of the theme he had hints from Ramsay, in whoseMerry BeggarsandHappy Beggarsgroups of half adozen male and female characters proclaim their views and join in a chorus in praise of drink. More direct suggestion for the setting of his “cantata” came from a night visit made by the poet and two of his friends to the low alehouse kept by Nancy Gibson (“Poosie Nansie”) in Mauchline. The poem was written in 1785, but Burns never published it and seems almost to have forgotten its existence.
It is impossible to exaggerate the unpromising nature of the theme. The place is a den of corruption, the characters are the dregs of society. A group of tramps and criminals have gathered at the end of their day's wanderings to drink the very rags from their backs and wallow in shameless incontinence. An old soldier and a quondam “daughter of the regiment,” a mountebank and his tinker sweetheart, a female pickpocket whose Highland bandit lover has been hanged, a fiddler at fairs who aspires to comfort her but is outdone by a tinker, a lame ballad-singer and his three wives, one of whom consoles the fiddler in the face of her husband—such is the choice company. The action is mere by-play, drunken love making; the main point is the songs. They are mostly frank autobiography, all pervaded withthe gaiety that comes from the conviction that being at the bottom, they need not be anxious about falling. Wine, women, and song are their enthusiasms, and only the song is above the lowest possible level.
Such is the sordid material out of which Burns wrought his greatest imaginative triumph. To take the reader into such a haunt and have him pass the evening in such company, not with disgust and nausea but with relish and joy, is an achievement that stands beside the creation of the scenes in the Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap. It is accomplished by virtue of the intensity of the poet's imaginative sympathy with human nature even in its most degraded forms, and by his power of finding utterance for the moods of the characters he conceives. The dramatic power which we have noted in a certain group of the songs here reaches its height, and in making the reader respond to it he avails himself of all his literary faculties. Pungent phrasing, a sense of the squalid picturesque, a humorous appreciation of human weakness, and a superb command of rollicking rhythms—these elements of his equipment are particularly notable. But the whole thing is fused and unified by a wonderful vitalitythat makes the reading of it an actual experience. And, though several of the songs are in English, there is no moralizing, no alien note of any kind to jar the perfection of its harmony. Scottish literature had seen nothing like it since Dunbar made the Seven Deadly Sins dance in hell.