XVIII.

“And send the godly in a pet to pray.”

Pope.

[Of this sarcastic and too daring poem many copies in manuscript were circulated while the poet lived, but though not unknown or unfelt by Currie, it continued unpublished till printed by Stewart with the Jolly Beggars, in 1801. Holy Willie was a small farmer, leading elder to Auld, a name well known to all lovers of Burns; austere in speech, scrupulous in all outward observances, and, what is known by the name of a “professing Christian.” He experienced, however, a “sore fall;” he permitted himself to be “filled fou,” and in a moment when “self got in” made free, it is said, with the money of the poor of the parish. His name was William Fisher.]

O thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell,Wha, as it pleases best thysel’,Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell,A’ for thy glory,And no for ony gude or illThey’ve done afore thee!I bless and praise thy matchless might,Whan thousands thou hast left in night,That I am here afore thy sight,For gifts and grace,A burnin’ and a shinin’ lightTo a’ this place.What was I, or my generation,That I should get sic exaltation,I wha deserve sic just damnation,For broken laws,Five thousand years ‘fore my creation,Thro’ Adam’s cause.When frae my mither’s womb I fell,Thou might hae plunged me in hell,To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,In burnin’ lake,Whar damned devils roar and yell,Chain’d to a stake.Yet I am here a chosen sample;To show thy grace is great and ample;I’m here a pillar in thy temple,Strong as a rock,A guide, a buckler, an example,To a’ thy flock.But yet, O Lord! confess I must,At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust;And sometimes, too, wi’ warldly trust,Vile self gets in;But thou remembers we are dust,Defil’d in sin.O Lord! yestreen thou kens, wi’ Meg—Thy pardon I sincerely beg,O! may’t ne’er be a livin’ plagueTo my dishonour,An’ I’ll ne’er lift a lawless legAgain upon her.Besides, I farther maun allow,Wi’ Lizzie’s lass, three times I trow—But Lord, that Friday I was fou,When I came near her,Or else, thou kens, thy servant trueWad ne’er hae steer’d her.Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn,Beset thy servant e’en and morn,Lest he owre high and proud should turn,‘Cause he’s sae gifted;If sae, thy han’ maun e’en be borneUntil thou lift it.Lord, bless thy chosen in this place,For here thou hast a chosen race:But God confound their stubborn face,And blast their name,Wha bring thy elders to disgraceAnd public shame.Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton’s deserts,He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts,Yet has sae mony takin’ arts,Wi’ grit and sma’,Frae God’s ain priests the people’s heartsHe steals awa.An’ whan we chasten’d him therefore,Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,As set the warld in a roarO’ laughin’ at us;—Curse thou his basket and his store,Kail and potatoes.Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray’r,Against the presbyt’ry of Ayr;Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bareUpo’ their heads,Lord weigh it down, and dinna spare,For their misdeeds.O Lord my God, that glib-tongu’d Aiken,My very heart and saul are quakin’,To think how we stood groanin’, shakin’,And swat wi’ dread,While Auld wi’ hingin lips gaed sneakin’And hung his head.Lord, in the day of vengeance try him,Lord, visit them wha did employ him,And pass not in thy mercy by ‘em,Nor hear their pray’r;But for thy people’s sake destroy ‘em,And dinna spare.But, Lord, remember me an mine,Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,That I for gear and grace may shine,Excell’d by nane,And a’ the glory shall be thine,Amen, Amen!

O thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell,Wha, as it pleases best thysel’,Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell,A’ for thy glory,And no for ony gude or illThey’ve done afore thee!

I bless and praise thy matchless might,Whan thousands thou hast left in night,That I am here afore thy sight,For gifts and grace,A burnin’ and a shinin’ lightTo a’ this place.

What was I, or my generation,That I should get sic exaltation,I wha deserve sic just damnation,For broken laws,Five thousand years ‘fore my creation,Thro’ Adam’s cause.

When frae my mither’s womb I fell,Thou might hae plunged me in hell,To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,In burnin’ lake,Whar damned devils roar and yell,Chain’d to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample;To show thy grace is great and ample;I’m here a pillar in thy temple,Strong as a rock,A guide, a buckler, an example,To a’ thy flock.

But yet, O Lord! confess I must,At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust;And sometimes, too, wi’ warldly trust,Vile self gets in;But thou remembers we are dust,Defil’d in sin.

O Lord! yestreen thou kens, wi’ Meg—Thy pardon I sincerely beg,O! may’t ne’er be a livin’ plagueTo my dishonour,An’ I’ll ne’er lift a lawless legAgain upon her.

Besides, I farther maun allow,Wi’ Lizzie’s lass, three times I trow—But Lord, that Friday I was fou,When I came near her,Or else, thou kens, thy servant trueWad ne’er hae steer’d her.

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn,Beset thy servant e’en and morn,Lest he owre high and proud should turn,‘Cause he’s sae gifted;If sae, thy han’ maun e’en be borneUntil thou lift it.

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place,For here thou hast a chosen race:But God confound their stubborn face,And blast their name,Wha bring thy elders to disgraceAnd public shame.

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton’s deserts,He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts,Yet has sae mony takin’ arts,Wi’ grit and sma’,Frae God’s ain priests the people’s heartsHe steals awa.

An’ whan we chasten’d him therefore,Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,As set the warld in a roarO’ laughin’ at us;—Curse thou his basket and his store,Kail and potatoes.

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray’r,Against the presbyt’ry of Ayr;Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bareUpo’ their heads,Lord weigh it down, and dinna spare,For their misdeeds.

O Lord my God, that glib-tongu’d Aiken,My very heart and saul are quakin’,To think how we stood groanin’, shakin’,And swat wi’ dread,While Auld wi’ hingin lips gaed sneakin’And hung his head.

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him,Lord, visit them wha did employ him,And pass not in thy mercy by ‘em,Nor hear their pray’r;But for thy people’s sake destroy ‘em,And dinna spare.

But, Lord, remember me an mine,Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,That I for gear and grace may shine,Excell’d by nane,And a’ the glory shall be thine,Amen, Amen!

[We are informed by Richmond of Mauchline, that when he was clerk in Gavin Hamilton’s office, Burns came in one morning and said, “I have just composed a poem, John, and if you will write it, I will repeat it.” He repeated Holy Willie’s Prayer and Epitaph; Hamilton came in at the moment, and having read them with delight, ran laughing with them in his hand to Robert Aiken. The end of Holy Willie was other than godly; in one of his visits to Mauchline, he drank more than was needful, fell into a ditch on his way home, and was found dead in the morning.]

Here Holy Willie’s sair worn clayTakes up its last abode;His saul has ta’en some other way,I fear the left-hand road.Stop! there he is, as sure’s a gun,Poor, silly body, see him;Nae wonder he’s as black’s the grun,Observe wha’s standing wi’ him.Your brunstane devilship I see,Has got him there before ye;But hand your nine-tail cat a wee,Till ance you’ve heard my story.Your pity I will not implore,For pity ye hae nane;Justice, alas! has gi’en him o’er,And mercy’s day is gaen.But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,Look something to your credit;A coof like him wad stain your name,If it were kent ye did it.

Here Holy Willie’s sair worn clayTakes up its last abode;His saul has ta’en some other way,I fear the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure’s a gun,Poor, silly body, see him;Nae wonder he’s as black’s the grun,Observe wha’s standing wi’ him.

Your brunstane devilship I see,Has got him there before ye;But hand your nine-tail cat a wee,Till ance you’ve heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,For pity ye hae nane;Justice, alas! has gi’en him o’er,And mercy’s day is gaen.

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,Look something to your credit;A coof like him wad stain your name,If it were kent ye did it.

[We have heard of a poor play-actor who, by a humorous inventory of his effects, so moved the commissioners of the income tax, that they remitted all claim on him then and forever; we know not that this very humorous inventory of Burns had any such effect on Mr. Aiken, the surveyor of the taxes. It is dated “Mossgiel, February 22d, 1786,” and is remarkable for wit and sprightliness, and for the information which it gives us of the poet’s habits, household, and agricultural implements.]

Sir, as your mandate did request,I send you here a faithfu’ list,O’ gudes, an’ gear, an’ a’ my graith,To which I’m clear to gi’e my aith.Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,I have four brutes o’ gallant mettle,As ever drew afore a pettle.My lan’ afore’s[8]a gude auld has been,An’ wight, an’ wilfu’ a’ his days been.My lan ahin’s[9]a weel gaun fillie,That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,[10]An’ your auld burro’ mony a time,In days when riding was nae crime—But ance, whan in my wooing pride,I like a blockhead boost to ride,The wilfu’ creature sae I pat to,(L—d pardon a’ my sins an’ that too!)I play’d my fillie sic a shavie,She’s a’ bedevil’d with the spavie.My fur ahin’s[11]a wordy beast,As e’er in tug or tow was trac’d.The fourth’s a Highland Donald hastie,A d—n’d red wud Kilburnie blastie!Forbye a cowt o’ cowt’s the wale,As ever ran afore a tail.If he be spar’d to be a beast,He’ll draw me fifteen pun’ at least.—Wheel carriages I ha’e but few,Three carts, an’ twa are feckly new;Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token,Ae leg an’ baith the trams are broken;I made a poker o’ the spin’le,An’ my auld mither brunt the trin’le.For men I’ve three mischievous boys,Run de’ils for rantin’ an’ for noise;A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t’other.Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother.I rule them as I ought, discreetly,An’ aften labour them completely;An’ ay on Sundays, duly, nightly,I on the Questions targe them tightly;Till, faith, wee Davock’s turn’d sae gleg,Tho’ scarcely langer than your leg,He’ll screed you aff Effectual calling,As fast as ony in the dwalling.I’ve nane in female servan’ station,(Lord keep me ay frae a’ temptation!)I ha’e nae wife—and that my bliss is,An’ ye have laid nae tax on misses;An’ then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me,I ken the devils darena touch me.Wi’ weans I’m mair than weel contented,Heav’n sent me ane mae than I wanted.My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess,She stares the daddy in her face,Enough of ought ye like but grace;But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady,I’ve paid enough for her already,An’ gin ye tax her or her mither,B’ the L—d! ye’se get them a’thegither.And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,Nae kind of license out I’m takin’;Frae this time forth, I do declareI’se ne’er ride horse nor hizzie mair;Thro’ dirt and dub for life I’ll paidle,Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;My travel a’ on foot I’ll shank it,I’ve sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit.The kirk and you may tak’ you that,It puts but little in your pat;Sae dinna put me in your buke.Nor for my ten white shillings luke.This list wi’ my ain hand I wrote it,the day and date as under noted;Then know all ye whom it concerns,

Sir, as your mandate did request,I send you here a faithfu’ list,O’ gudes, an’ gear, an’ a’ my graith,To which I’m clear to gi’e my aith.

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,I have four brutes o’ gallant mettle,As ever drew afore a pettle.My lan’ afore’s[8]a gude auld has been,An’ wight, an’ wilfu’ a’ his days been.My lan ahin’s[9]a weel gaun fillie,That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,[10]An’ your auld burro’ mony a time,In days when riding was nae crime—But ance, whan in my wooing pride,I like a blockhead boost to ride,The wilfu’ creature sae I pat to,(L—d pardon a’ my sins an’ that too!)I play’d my fillie sic a shavie,She’s a’ bedevil’d with the spavie.My fur ahin’s[11]a wordy beast,As e’er in tug or tow was trac’d.The fourth’s a Highland Donald hastie,A d—n’d red wud Kilburnie blastie!Forbye a cowt o’ cowt’s the wale,As ever ran afore a tail.If he be spar’d to be a beast,He’ll draw me fifteen pun’ at least.—Wheel carriages I ha’e but few,Three carts, an’ twa are feckly new;Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token,Ae leg an’ baith the trams are broken;I made a poker o’ the spin’le,An’ my auld mither brunt the trin’le.

For men I’ve three mischievous boys,Run de’ils for rantin’ an’ for noise;A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t’other.Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother.I rule them as I ought, discreetly,An’ aften labour them completely;An’ ay on Sundays, duly, nightly,I on the Questions targe them tightly;Till, faith, wee Davock’s turn’d sae gleg,Tho’ scarcely langer than your leg,He’ll screed you aff Effectual calling,As fast as ony in the dwalling.I’ve nane in female servan’ station,(Lord keep me ay frae a’ temptation!)I ha’e nae wife—and that my bliss is,An’ ye have laid nae tax on misses;An’ then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me,I ken the devils darena touch me.Wi’ weans I’m mair than weel contented,Heav’n sent me ane mae than I wanted.My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess,She stares the daddy in her face,Enough of ought ye like but grace;But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady,I’ve paid enough for her already,An’ gin ye tax her or her mither,B’ the L—d! ye’se get them a’thegither.

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,Nae kind of license out I’m takin’;Frae this time forth, I do declareI’se ne’er ride horse nor hizzie mair;Thro’ dirt and dub for life I’ll paidle,Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;My travel a’ on foot I’ll shank it,I’ve sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit.The kirk and you may tak’ you that,It puts but little in your pat;Sae dinna put me in your buke.Nor for my ten white shillings luke.

This list wi’ my ain hand I wrote it,the day and date as under noted;Then know all ye whom it concerns,

Subscripsi huic

Robert Burns.

FOOTNOTES:[8]The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough.[9]The hindmost on the left-hand in the plough.[10]Kilmarnock.[11]The hindmost horse on the right-hand in the plough.

[8]The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough.

[9]The hindmost on the left-hand in the plough.

[10]Kilmarnock.

[11]The hindmost horse on the right-hand in the plough.

A robe of seeming truth and trustDid 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.

[The scene of this fine poem is the church-yard of Mauchline, and the subject handled so cleverly and sharply is the laxity of manners visible in matters so solemn and terrible as the administration of the sacrament. “This was indeed,” says Lockhart, “an extraordinary performance: no partisan of any sect could whisper that malice had formed its principal inspiration, or that its chief attraction lay in the boldness with which individuals, entitled and accustomed to respect, were held up to ridicule: it was acknowledged, amidst the sternest mutterings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the hands of a national poet.” “It is no doubt,” says Hogg, “a reckless piece of satire, but it is a clever one, and must have cut to the bone. But much as I admire the poem I must regret that it is partly borrowed from Ferguson.”]

Upon a simmer Sunday morn,When Nature’s face is fair,I walked forth to view the corn,An’ snuff the caller air.The rising sun owre Galston muirs,Wi’ glorious light was glintin’;The hares were hirplin down the furs,The lav’rocks they were chantin’Fu’ sweet that day.As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad,To see a scene sae gay,Three hizzies, early at the road,Cam skelpin up the way;Twa had manteeles o’ dolefu’ black,But ane wi’ lyart lining;The third, that gaed a-wee a-back,Was in the fashion shiningFu’ gay that day.The twa appear’d like sisters twin,In feature, form, an’ claes;Their visage, wither’d, lang, an’ thin,An’ sour as ony slaes:The third cam up, hap-step-an’-lowp,As light as ony lambie,An’ wi’ a curchie low did stoop,As soon as e’er she saw me,Fu’ kind that day.Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth I, “Sweet 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 feck,Of a’ the ten commandsA screed some day.“My name is Fun—your cronie 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:Gin ye’ll go there, yon runkl’d pair,We will get famous laughin’At them this day.”Quoth I, “With a’ my heart I’ll do’t;I’ll get my Sunday’s sark on,An’ meet you on the holy spot;Faith, we’se hae fine remarkin’!”Then I gaed hame at crowdie-timeAn’ soon I made me ready;For roads were clad, frae side to side,Wi’ monie a wearie body,In droves that day.Here farmers gash, in ridin’ graithGaed hoddin by their cottars;There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith,Are springin’ o’er the gutters.The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,In silks an’ scarlets glitter;Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang,An’ farls bak’d wi’ butter,Fu’ crump that day.When by the plate we set our nose,Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence,A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws,An’ we maun draw our tippence.Then in we go to see the show,On ev’ry side they’re gath’rin’,Some carrying dails, some chairs an’ stools,An’ some are busy blethrin’Right loud that day.Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs,An’ screen our countra gentry,There, racer Jess, and twa-three wh-res,Are blinkin’ at the entry.Here sits a raw of titlin’ jades,Wi’ heaving breast and bare neck,An’ there’s a batch o’ wabster lads,Blackguarding frae KilmarnockFor fun this day.Here some are thinkin’ on their sins,An’ some upo’ their claes;Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins,Anither sighs an’ prays:On this hand sits a chosen swatch,Wi’ screw’d up grace-proud faces;On that a set o’ chaps at watch,Thrang winkin’ on the lassesTo chairs that day.O happy is that man an’ blest!Nae wonder that it pride him!Wha’s ain dear lass that he likes best,Comes clinkin’ down beside him;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,Unkenn’d that day.Now a’ the congregation o’erIs silent expectation;For Moodie speeds the holy door,Wi’ tidings o’ damnation.Should Hornie, as in ancient days,‘Mang sons o’ God present him,The vera sight o’ Moodie’s face,To’s ain het hame had sent himWi’ fright that day.Hear how he clears the points o’ faithWi’ ratlin’ an’ wi’ thumpin’!Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,He’s stampin an’ he’s jumpin’!His lengthen’d chin, his turn’d-up snout,His eldritch squeel and gestures,Oh, how they fire the heart devout,Like cantharidian plasters,On sic a day.But hark! the tent has chang’d its voice:There’s peace an’ rest nae langer:For a’ the real judges rise,They canna sit for anger.Smith opens out his cauld harangues,On practice and on morals;An’ aff the godly pour in thrangs,To gie the jars an’ barrelsA lift that day.What signifies his barren shine,Of moral pow’rs and reason?His English style, an’ gestures 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 inThat’s right that day.In guid time comes an antidoteAgainst sic poison’d nostrum;For Peebles, frae the water-fit,Ascends the holy rostrum:See, up he’s got the word o’ God,An’ meek an’ mim has view’d it,While Common-Sense has ta’en the road,An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate,[12]Fast, fast, that day.Wee Miller, neist the guard relieves,An’ orthodoxy raibles,Tho’ in his heart he weel believes,An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables:But faith! the birkie wants a manse,So, cannily he hums them;Altho’ his carnal wit an’ senseLike hafflins-ways o’ercomes himAt times that day.Now but an’ ben, the Change-house fills,Wi’ yill-caup commentators:Here’s crying out for bakes and gills,An’ there the pint-stowp clatters;While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang,Wi’ logic, an’ wi’ scripture,They raise a din, that, in the end,Is like to breed a ruptureO’ wrath that day.Leeze me on drink! it gies us mairThan either school or college:It kindles wit, it waukens lair,It pangs us fou’ o’ knowledge,Be’t whisky gill, or penny wheep,Or any stronger potion,It never fails, on drinking deep,To kittle up our notionBy 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.On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk,They’re making observations;While some are cozie i’ the neuk,An’ formin’ assignationsTo meet some day.

As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad,To see a scene sae gay,Three hizzies, early at the road,Cam skelpin up the way;Twa had manteeles o’ dolefu’ black,But ane wi’ lyart lining;The third, that gaed a-wee a-back,Was in the fashion shiningFu’ gay that day.

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

Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth I, “Sweet 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 feck,Of a’ the ten commandsA screed some day.

“My name is Fun—your cronie 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:Gin ye’ll go there, yon runkl’d pair,We will get famous laughin’At them this day.”

Quoth I, “With a’ my heart I’ll do’t;I’ll get my Sunday’s sark on,An’ meet you on the holy spot;Faith, we’se hae fine remarkin’!”Then I gaed hame at crowdie-timeAn’ soon I made me ready;For roads were clad, frae side to side,Wi’ monie a wearie body,In droves that day.

Here farmers gash, in ridin’ graithGaed hoddin by their cottars;There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith,Are springin’ o’er the gutters.The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,In silks an’ scarlets glitter;Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang,An’ farls bak’d wi’ butter,Fu’ crump that day.

When by the plate we set our nose,Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence,A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws,An’ we maun draw our tippence.Then in we go to see the show,On ev’ry side they’re gath’rin’,Some carrying dails, some chairs an’ stools,An’ some are busy blethrin’Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs,An’ screen our countra gentry,There, racer Jess, and twa-three wh-res,Are blinkin’ at the entry.Here sits a raw of titlin’ jades,Wi’ heaving breast and bare neck,An’ there’s a batch o’ wabster lads,Blackguarding frae KilmarnockFor fun this day.

Here some are thinkin’ on their sins,An’ some upo’ their claes;Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins,Anither sighs an’ prays:On this hand sits a chosen swatch,Wi’ screw’d up grace-proud faces;On that a set o’ chaps at watch,Thrang winkin’ on the lassesTo chairs that day.

O happy is that man an’ blest!Nae wonder that it pride him!Wha’s ain dear lass that he likes best,Comes clinkin’ down beside him;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,Unkenn’d that day.

Now a’ the congregation o’erIs silent expectation;For Moodie speeds the holy door,Wi’ tidings o’ damnation.Should Hornie, as in ancient days,‘Mang sons o’ God present him,The vera sight o’ Moodie’s face,To’s ain het hame had sent himWi’ fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o’ faithWi’ ratlin’ an’ wi’ thumpin’!Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,He’s stampin an’ he’s jumpin’!His lengthen’d chin, his turn’d-up snout,His eldritch squeel and gestures,Oh, how they fire the heart devout,Like cantharidian plasters,On sic a day.

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

What signifies his barren shine,Of moral pow’rs and reason?His English style, an’ gestures 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 inThat’s right that day.

In guid time comes an antidoteAgainst sic poison’d nostrum;For Peebles, frae the water-fit,Ascends the holy rostrum:See, up he’s got the word o’ God,An’ meek an’ mim has view’d it,While Common-Sense has ta’en the road,An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate,[12]Fast, fast, that day.

Wee Miller, neist the guard relieves,An’ orthodoxy raibles,Tho’ in his heart he weel believes,An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables:But faith! the birkie wants a manse,So, cannily he hums them;Altho’ his carnal wit an’ senseLike hafflins-ways o’ercomes himAt times that day.

Now but an’ ben, the Change-house fills,Wi’ yill-caup commentators:Here’s crying out for bakes and gills,An’ there the pint-stowp clatters;While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang,Wi’ logic, an’ wi’ scripture,They raise a din, that, in the end,Is like to breed a ruptureO’ wrath that day.

Leeze me on drink! it gies us mairThan either school or college:It kindles wit, it waukens lair,It pangs us fou’ o’ knowledge,Be’t whisky gill, or penny wheep,Or any stronger potion,It never fails, on drinking deep,To kittle up our notionBy 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.On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk,They’re making observations;While some are cozie i’ the neuk,An’ formin’ assignationsTo meet some day.

But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts,Till a’ the hills are rairin’,An’ echoes back return the shouts:Black Russell is na’ sparin’:His piercing words, like Highlan’ swords,Divide the joints and marrow;His talk o’ Hell, where devils dwell,Our vera sauls does harrow[13]Wi’ fright that day.A vast, unbottom’d boundless pit,Fill’d fou o’ lowin’ brunstane,Wha’s ragin’ flame, an’ scorchin’ heat,Wad melt the hardest whunstane!The half asleep start up wi’ fear,An’ think they hear it roarin’,When presently it does appear,’Twas but some neibor snorin’Asleep that day.’Twad be owre lang a tale to tellHow monie stories past,An’ how they crowded to the yill,When they were a’ dismist:How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups,Amang the furms an’ benches:An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps,Was dealt about in lunches,An’ dawds that day.In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife,An’ sits down by the fire,Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife;The lasses they are shyer.The auld guidmen, about the grace,Frae side to side they bother,Till some ane by his bonnet lays,An’ gi’es them’t like a tether,Fu’ lang that day.Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,Or lasses that hae naething;Sma’ need has he to say a grace,Or melvie his braw claithing!O wives, be mindfu’ ance yourselHow bonnie lads ye wanted,An’ dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,Let lasses be affrontedOn sic a day!Now Clinkumbell, wi’ ratlin tow,Begins to jow an’ croon;Some swagger hame, the best they dow,Some wait the afternoon.At slaps the billies halt a blink,Till lasses strip their shoon:Wi’ faith an’ hope, an’ love an’ drink,They’re a’ in famous tuneFor crack that day.How monie hearts this day convertsO’ sinners and o’ lasses!Their hearts o’ stane, gin night, are gane,As saft as ony flesh is.There’s some are fou o’ love divine;There’s some are fou o’ brandy;An’ monie jobs that day beginMay end in houghmagandieSome ither day.

A vast, unbottom’d boundless pit,Fill’d fou o’ lowin’ brunstane,Wha’s ragin’ flame, an’ scorchin’ heat,Wad melt the hardest whunstane!The half asleep start up wi’ fear,An’ think they hear it roarin’,When presently it does appear,’Twas but some neibor snorin’Asleep that day.

’Twad be owre lang a tale to tellHow monie stories past,An’ how they crowded to the yill,When they were a’ dismist:How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups,Amang the furms an’ benches:An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps,Was dealt about in lunches,An’ dawds that day.

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife,An’ sits down by the fire,Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife;The lasses they are shyer.The auld guidmen, about the grace,Frae side to side they bother,Till some ane by his bonnet lays,An’ gi’es them’t like a tether,Fu’ lang that day.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,Or lasses that hae naething;Sma’ need has he to say a grace,Or melvie his braw claithing!O wives, be mindfu’ ance yourselHow bonnie lads ye wanted,An’ dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,Let lasses be affrontedOn sic a day!

Now Clinkumbell, wi’ ratlin tow,Begins to jow an’ croon;Some swagger hame, the best they dow,Some wait the afternoon.At slaps the billies halt a blink,Till lasses strip their shoon:Wi’ faith an’ hope, an’ love an’ drink,They’re a’ in famous tuneFor crack that day.

How monie hearts this day convertsO’ sinners and o’ lasses!Their hearts o’ stane, gin night, are gane,As saft as ony flesh is.There’s some are fou o’ love divine;There’s some are fou o’ brandy;An’ monie jobs that day beginMay end in houghmagandieSome ither day.

FOOTNOTES:[12]A street so called, which faces the tent in Mauchline.[13]Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

[12]A street so called, which faces the tent in Mauchline.

[13]Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

“For sense they little owe to frugal heav’n—To please the mob they hide the little giv’n.”

[This sarcastic sally was written on the admission of Mr. Mackinlay, as one of the ministers to the Laigh, or parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of April, 1786. That reverend person was an Auld Light professor, and his ordination incensed all the New Lights, hence the bitter levity of the poem. These dissensions have long since past away: Mackinlay, a pious and kind-hearted sincere man, lived down all the personalities of the satire, and though unwelcome at first, he soon learned to regard them only as a proof of the powers of the poet.]

Kilmarnock wabsters fidge an’ claw,An’ pour your creeshie nations;An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw,Of a’ denominations,Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an’ a’,An’ there tak up your stations;Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw,An’ pour divine libationsFor joy this day.Curst Common-Sense, that imp o’ hell,Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder;[14]But Oliphant aft made her yell,An’ Russell sair misca’d her;This day Mackinlay taks the flail,And he’s the boy will blaud her!He’ll clap a shangan on her tail,An’ set the bairns to daud herWi’ dirt this day.

Curst Common-Sense, that imp o’ hell,Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder;[14]But Oliphant aft made her yell,An’ Russell sair misca’d her;This day Mackinlay taks the flail,And he’s the boy will blaud her!He’ll clap a shangan on her tail,An’ set the bairns to daud herWi’ dirt this day.

Mak haste an’ turn King David owre,An’ lilt wi’ holy clangor;O’ double verse come gie us four,An’ skirl up the Bangor:This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure,Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,For Heresy is in her pow’r,And gloriously she’ll whang herWi’ pith this day.Come, let a proper text be read,An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour,How graceless Ham[15]leugh at his dad,Which made Canaan a niger;Or Phineas[16]drove the murdering blade,Wi’ wh-re-abhorring rigour;Or Zipporah,[17]the scauldin’ jad,Was like a bluidy tigerI’ th’ inn that day.There, try his mettle on the creed,And bind him down wi’ caution,That stipend is a carnal weedHe taks but for the fashion;And gie him o’er the flock, to feed,And punish each transgression;Especial, rams that cross the breed,Gie them sufficient threshin’,Spare them nae day.Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail,And toss thy horns fu’ canty;Nae mair thou’lt rowte out-owre the dale,Because thy pasture’s scanty;For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kailShall fill thy crib in plenty,An’ runts o’ grace the pick and wale,No gi’en by way o’ dainty,But ilka day.Nae mair by Babel’s streams we’ll weep,To think upon our Zion;And hing our fiddles up to sleep,Like baby-clouts a-dryin’:Come, screw the pegs, wi’ tunefu’ cheep,And o’er the thairms be tryin’;Oh, rare! to see our elbucks wheep,An’ a’ like lamb-tails flyin’Fu’ fast this day!Lang Patronage, wi’ rod o’ airn,Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoin’,As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,Has proven to its ruin:Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,He saw mischief was brewin’;And like a godly elect bairnHe’s wal’d us out a true ane,And sound this day.Now, Robinson, harangue nae mair,But steek your gab for ever.Or try the wicked town of Ayr,For there they’ll think you clever;Or, nae reflection on your lear,Ye may commence a shaver;Or to the Netherton repair,And turn a carpet-weaverAff-hand this day.Mutrie and you were just a matchWe never had sic twa drones:Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,Just like a winkin’ baudrons:And ay’ he catch’d the tither wretch,To fry them in his caudrons;But now his honour maun detach,Wi’ a’ his brimstane squadrons,Fast, fast this day.See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faesShe’s swingein’ through the city;Hark, how the nine-tail’d cat she plays!I vow it’s unco pretty:There, Learning, with his Greekish face,Grunts out some Latin ditty;And Common Sense is gaun, she says,To mak to Jamie BeattieHer plaint this day.But there’s Morality himsel’,Embracing all opinions;Hear, how he gies the tither yell,Between his twa companions;See, how she peels the skin an’ fell.As ane were peelin’ onions!Now there—they’re packed aff to hell,And banished our dominions,Henceforth this day.

Come, let a proper text be read,An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour,How graceless Ham[15]leugh at his dad,Which made Canaan a niger;Or Phineas[16]drove the murdering blade,Wi’ wh-re-abhorring rigour;Or Zipporah,[17]the scauldin’ jad,Was like a bluidy tigerI’ th’ inn that day.

There, try his mettle on the creed,And bind him down wi’ caution,That stipend is a carnal weedHe taks but for the fashion;And gie him o’er the flock, to feed,And punish each transgression;Especial, rams that cross the breed,Gie them sufficient threshin’,Spare them nae day.

Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail,And toss thy horns fu’ canty;Nae mair thou’lt rowte out-owre the dale,Because thy pasture’s scanty;For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kailShall fill thy crib in plenty,An’ runts o’ grace the pick and wale,No gi’en by way o’ dainty,But ilka day.

Nae mair by Babel’s streams we’ll weep,To think upon our Zion;And hing our fiddles up to sleep,Like baby-clouts a-dryin’:Come, screw the pegs, wi’ tunefu’ cheep,And o’er the thairms be tryin’;Oh, rare! to see our elbucks wheep,An’ a’ like lamb-tails flyin’Fu’ fast this day!

Lang Patronage, wi’ rod o’ airn,Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoin’,As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,Has proven to its ruin:Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,He saw mischief was brewin’;And like a godly elect bairnHe’s wal’d us out a true ane,And sound this day.

Now, Robinson, harangue nae mair,But steek your gab for ever.Or try the wicked town of Ayr,For there they’ll think you clever;Or, nae reflection on your lear,Ye may commence a shaver;Or to the Netherton repair,And turn a carpet-weaverAff-hand this day.

Mutrie and you were just a matchWe never had sic twa drones:Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,Just like a winkin’ baudrons:And ay’ he catch’d the tither wretch,To fry them in his caudrons;But now his honour maun detach,Wi’ a’ his brimstane squadrons,Fast, fast this day.

See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faesShe’s swingein’ through the city;Hark, how the nine-tail’d cat she plays!I vow it’s unco pretty:There, Learning, with his Greekish face,Grunts out some Latin ditty;And Common Sense is gaun, she says,To mak to Jamie BeattieHer plaint this day.

But there’s Morality himsel’,Embracing all opinions;Hear, how he gies the tither yell,Between his twa companions;See, how she peels the skin an’ fell.As ane were peelin’ onions!Now there—they’re packed aff to hell,And banished our dominions,Henceforth this day.

O, happy day! rejoice, rejoice!Come bouse about the porter!Morality’s demure decoysShall here nae mair find quarter:Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys,That Heresy can torture:They’ll gie her on a rape a hoyse,And cowe her measure shorterBy th’ head some day.Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,And here’s for a conclusion,To every New Light[18]mother’s son,From this time forth Confusion:If mair they deave us wi’ their din,Or Patronage intrusion,We’ll light a spunk, and ev’ry skin,We’ll rin them aff in fusionLike oil, some day.

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,And here’s for a conclusion,To every New Light[18]mother’s son,From this time forth Confusion:If mair they deave us wi’ their din,Or Patronage intrusion,We’ll light a spunk, and ev’ry skin,We’ll rin them aff in fusionLike oil, some day.

FOOTNOTES:[14]Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigh Kirk.[15]Genesis, ix. 22.[16]Numbers, xxv. 8.[17]Exodus, iv. 25.[18]“New Light” is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religions opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended.

[14]Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigh Kirk.

[15]Genesis, ix. 22.

[16]Numbers, xxv. 8.

[17]Exodus, iv. 25.

[18]“New Light” is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religions opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended.

On his text,Malachi, iv. 2—“And ye shall go forth, and grow up asCalvesof the stall.”

[The laugh which this little poem raised against Steven was a loud one. Burns composed it during the sermon to which it relates and repeated it to Gavin Hamilton, with whom he happened on that day to dine. The Calf—for the name it seems stuck—came to London, where the younger brother of Burns heard him preach in Covent Garden Chapel, in 1796.]

Right, Sir! your text I’ll prove it true,Though Heretics may laugh;For instance; there’s yoursel’ just now,God knows, an unco Calf!And should some patron be so kind,As bless you wi’ a kirk,I doubt na, Sir, but then we’ll find,Ye’re still as great a Stirk.But, if the lover’s raptur’d hourShall ever be your lot,Forbid it, ev’ry heavenly power,You e’er should be a stot!Tho’, when some kind, connubial dear,Your but-and-ben adorns,The like has been that you may wearA noble head of horns.And in your lug, most reverend James,To hear you roar and rowte,Few men o’ sense will doubt your claimsTo rank among the nowte.And when ye’re number’d wi’ the dead,Below a grassy hillock,Wi’ justice they may mark your head—“Here lies a famous Bullock!”

Right, Sir! your text I’ll prove it true,Though Heretics may laugh;For instance; there’s yoursel’ just now,God knows, an unco Calf!

And should some patron be so kind,As bless you wi’ a kirk,I doubt na, Sir, but then we’ll find,Ye’re still as great a Stirk.

But, if the lover’s raptur’d hourShall ever be your lot,Forbid it, ev’ry heavenly power,You e’er should be a stot!

Tho’, when some kind, connubial dear,Your but-and-ben adorns,The like has been that you may wearA noble head of horns.

And in your lug, most reverend James,To hear you roar and rowte,Few men o’ sense will doubt your claimsTo rank among the nowte.

And when ye’re number’d wi’ the dead,Below a grassy hillock,Wi’ justice they may mark your head—“Here lies a famous Bullock!”

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