Withhalf a heart I wander hereAs from an age gone byA brother—yet though young in years.An elder brother, I.
You speak another tongue than mine,Though both were English born.I towards the night of time decline,You mount into the morn.
Youth shall grow great and strong and free,But age must still decay:To-morrow for the States—for me,England and Yesterday.
San Francisco.
Iama kind of farthing dip,Unfriendly to the nose and eyes;A blue-behinded ape, I skipUpon the trees of Paradise.
At mankind’s feast, I take my placeIn solemn, sanctimonious state,And have the air of saying graceWhile I defile the dinner plate.
I am “the smiler with the knife,”The battener upon garbage, I—Dear Heaven, with such a rancid life,Were it not better far to die?
Yet still, about the human pale,I love to scamper, love to race,To swing by my irreverent tailAll over the most holy place;
And when at length, some golden day,The unfailing sportsman, aiming at,Shall bag, me—all the world shall say:Thank God,and there’s an end of that!
Singclearlier, Muse, or evermore be still,Sing truer or no longer sing!No more the voice of melancholy JacquesTo wake a weeping echo in the hill;But as the boy, the pirate of the spring,From the green elm a living linnet takes,One natural verse recapture—then be still.
Thebed was made, the room was fit,By punctual eve the stars were lit;The air was still, the water ran,No need was there for maid or man,When we put up, my ass and I,At God’s green caravanserai.
Wetravelled in the print of olden wars,Yet all the land was green,And love we found, and peace,Where fire and war had been.
They pass and smile, the children of the sword—No more the sword they wield;And O, how deep the cornAlong the battlefield!
Forlove of lovely words, and for the sakeOf those, my kinsmen and my countrymen,Who early and late in the windy ocean toiledTo plant a star for seamen, where was thenThe surfy haunt of seals and cormorants:I, on the lintel of this cot, inscribeThe name of a strong tower.
Hereall is sunny, and when the truant gullSkims the green level of the lawn, his wingDispetals roses; here the house is framedOf kneaded brick and the plumed mountain pine,Such clay as artists fashion and such woodAs the tree-climbing urchin breaks. But thereEternal granite hewn from the living isleAnd dowelled with brute iron, rears a towerThat from its wet foundation to its crownOf glittering glass, stands, in the sweep of winds,Immovable, immortal, eminent.
My house, I say. But hark to the sunny dovesThat make my roof the arena of their loves,That gyre about the gable all day longAnd fill the chimneys with their murmurous song:Our house, they say; andmine, the cat declaresAnd spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs;Andminethe dog, and rises stiff with wrathIf any alien foot profane the path.So too the buck that trimmed my terraces,Our whilome gardener, called the garden his;Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abodeAnd his late kingdom, only from the road.
Mybody which my dungeon is,And yet my parks and palaces:—Which is so great that there I goAll the day long to and fro,And when the night begins to fallThrow down my bed and sleep, while allThe building hums with wakefulness—Even as a child of savagesWhen evening takes her on her way,(She having roamed a summer’s dayAlong the mountain-sides and scalp)Sleeps in an antre of that alp:—Which is so broad and high that there,As in the topless fields of air,My fancy soars like to a kiteAnd faints in the blue infinite:—Which is so strong, my strongest throesAnd the rough world’s besieging blowsNot break it, and so weak withal,Death ebbs and flows in its loose wallAs the green sea in fishers’ nets,And tops its topmost parapets:—Which is so wholly mine that ICan wield its whole artillery,And mine so little, that my soulDwells in perpetual control,And I but think and speak and doAs my dead fathers move me to:—If this born body of my bonesThe beggared soul so barely owns,What money passed from hand to hand,What creeping custom of the land,What deed of author or assign,Can make a house a thing of mine?
Saynot of me that weakly I declinedThe labours of my sires, and fled the sea,The towers we founded and the lamps we lit,To play at home with paper like a child.But rather say:In the afternoon of timeA strenuous family dusted from its handsThe sand of granite,and beholding farAlong the sounding coast its pyramidsAnd tall memorials catch the dying sun,Smiled well content,and to this childish taskAround the fire addressed its evening hours.
ae, ai
open A as in rare.
a’, au, aw
AW as in law.
ea
open E as in mere, but this with exceptions, as heather = heather, wean = wain, lear = lair.
ee, ei, ie
open E as in mere.
oa
open O as in more.
ou
doubled O as in poor.
ow
OW as in bower.
u
doubled O as in poor.
ui or ü before R
(say roughly) open A as in rare.
ui or ü before any other consonant
(say roughly) close I as in grin.
y
open I as in kite.
i
pretty nearly what you please, much as in English, Heaven guide the reader through that labyrinth! But in Scots it dodges usually from the short I, as in grin, to the open E, as in mere. Find the blind, I may remark, are pronounced to rhyme with the preterite of grin.
Far’yont amang the years to beWhen a’ we think, an’ a’ we see,An’ a’ we luve, ’s been dung ajeeBy time’s rouch shouther,An’ what was richt and wrang for meLies mangled throu’ther,
It’s possible—it’s hardly mair—That some ane, ripin’ after lear—Some auld professor or young heir,If still there’s either—May find an’ read me, an’ be sairPerplexed, puir brither!
“What tongue does your auld bookie speak?”He’ll spier; an’ I, his mou to steik:“No bein’ fit to write in Greek,I write in Lallan,Dear to my heart as the peat reek,Auld as Tantallon.
“Few spak it then,an’ noo there’s nane.My puir auld sangs lie a’ their lane,Their sense,that aince was braw an’ plain,Tint a’thegether,Like runes upon a standin’ staneAmang the heather.
“But think not you the brae to speel;You,tae,maun chow the bitter peel;For a’ your lear,for a’ your skeel,Ye’re nane sae lucky;An’ things are mebbe waur than weelFor you,my buckie.
“The hale concern(baith hens an’ eggs,Baith books an’ writers,stars an’ clegs)Noo stachers upon lowsent legsAn’ wears awa’;The tack o’ mankind,near the dregs,Rins unco law.
“Your book,that in some braw new tongue,Ye wrote or prentit,preached or sung,Will still be just a bairn,an’ youngIn fame an’ years,Whan the hale planet’s guts are dungAbout your ears;
“An’ you,sair gruppin’ to a sparOr whammled wi’ some bleezin’ star,Cryin’ to ken whaur deil ye are,Hame,France,or Flanders—Whang sindry like a railway carAn’ flie in danders.”
Fraenirly, nippin’, Eas’lan’ breeze,Frae Norlan’ snaw, an’ haar o’ seas,Weel happit in your gairden trees,A bonny bit,Atween the muckle Pentland’s knees,Secure ye sit.
Beeches an’ aiks entwine their theek,An’ firs, a stench, auld-farrant clique.A’ simmer day, your chimleys reek,Couthy and bien;An’ here an’ there your windies keekAmang the green.
A pickle plats an’ paths an’ posies,A wheen auld gillyflowers an’ roses:A ring o’ wa’s the hale enclosesFrae sheep or men;An’ there the auld housie beeks an’ dozes,A’ by her lane.
The gairdner crooks his weary backA’ day in the pitaty-track,Or mebbe stops awhile to crackWi’ Jane the cook,Or at some buss, worm-eaten-black,To gie a look.
Frae the high hills the curlew ca’s;The sheep gang baaing by the wa’s;Or whiles a clan o’ roosty crawsCangle thegether;The wild bees seek the gairden raws,Weariet wi’ heather.
Or in the gloamin’ douce an’ grayThe sweet-throat mavis tunes her lay;The herd comes linkin’ doun the brae;An’ by degreesThe muckle siller müne maks wayAmang the trees.
Here aft hae I, wi’ sober heart,For meditation sat apairt,When orra loves or kittle artPerplexed my mind;Here socht a balm for ilka smartO’ humankind.
Here aft, weel neukit by my lane,Wi’ Horace, or perhaps Montaigne,The mornin’ hours hae come an’ ganeAbüne my heid—I wadnae gi’en a chucky-staneFor a’ I’d read.
But noo the auld city, street by street,An’ winter fu’ o’ snaw an’ sleet,Awhile shut in my gangrel feetAn’ goavin’ mettle;Noo is the soopit ingle sweet,An’ liltin’ kettle.
An’ noo the winter winds complain;Cauld lies the glaur in ilka lane;On draigled hizzie, tautit weanAn’ drucken lads,In the mirk nicht, the winter rainDribbles an’ blads.
Whan bugles frae the Castle rock,An’ beaten drums wi’ dowie shock,Wauken, at cauld-rife sax o’clock,My chitterin’ frame,I mind me on the kintry cock,The kintry hame.
I mind me on yon bonny bield;An’ Fancy traivels far afieldTo gaither a’ that gairdens yieldO’ sun an’ Simmer:To hearten up a dowie chield,Fancy’s the limmer!
Whenaince Aprile has fairly come,An’ birds may bigg in winter’s lum,An’ pleisure’s spreid for a’ and someO’ whatna state,Love, wi’ her auld recruitin’ drum,Than taks the gate.
The heart plays dunt wi’ main an’ micht;The lasses’ een are a’ sae bricht,Their dresses are sae braw an’ ticht,The bonny birdies!—Puir winter virtue at the sichtGangs heels ower hurdies.
An’ aye as love frae land to landTirls the drum wi’ eident hand,A’ men collect at her command,Toun-bred or land’art,An’ follow in a denty bandHer gaucy standart.
An’ I, wha sang o’ rain an’ snaw,An’ weary winter weel awa’,Noo busk me in a jacket braw,An’ tak my placeI’ the ram-stam, harum-scarum raw,Wi’ smilin’ face.
Amilean’ a bittock, a mile or twa,Abüthe burn, ayont the law,Davie an’ Donal’ an’ Cherlie an’ a’,An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
Ane went hame wi’ the ither, an’ thenThe ither went hame wi’ the ither twa men,An’ baith wad return him the service again,An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
The clocks were chappin’ in house an’ ha’,Eleeven, twal an’ ane an’ twa;An’ the guidman’s face was turnt to the wa’,An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
A wind got up frae affa the sea,It blew the stars as clear’s could be,It blew in the een of a’ o’ the three,An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
Noo, Davie was first to get sleep in his head,“The best o’ frien’s maun twine,” he said;“I’m weariet, an’ here I’m awa’ to my bed.”An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
Twa o’ them walkin’ an’ crackin’ their lane,The mornin’ licht cam gray an’ plain,An’ the birds they yammert on stick an’ stane,An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
O years ayont, O years awa’,My lads, ye’ll mind whate’er befa’—My lads, ye’ll mind on the bield o’ the law,When the müne was shinin’ clearly.
Theclinkum-clank o’ Sabbath bellsNoo to the hoastin’ rookery swells,Noo faintin’ laigh in shady dells,Sounds far an’ near,An’ through the simmer kintry tellsIts tale o’ cheer.
An’ noo, to that melodious play,A’ deidly awn the quiet sway—A’ ken their solemn holiday,Bestial an’ human,The singin’ lintie on the brae,The restin’ plou’man,
He, mair than a’ the lave o’ men,His week completit joys to ken;Half-dressed, he daunders out an’ in,Perplext wi’ leisure;An’ his raxt limbs he’ll rax againWi’ painfü’ pleesure.
The steerin’ mither strang afitNoo shoos the bairnies but a bit;Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shüitTo scart upon them,Or sweeties in their pouch to pit,Wi’ blessin’s on them.
The lasses, clean frae tap to taes,Are busked in crunklin’ underclaes;The gartened hose, the weel-filled stays,The nakit shift,A’ bleached on bonny greens for days,An’ white’s the drift.
An’ noo to face the kirkward mile:The guidman’s hat o’ dacent style,The blackit shoon, we noo maun fyleAs white’s the miller:A waefü’ peety tae, to spileThe warth o’ siller.
Our Marg’et, aye sae keen to crack,Douce-stappin’ in the stoury track,Her emeralt goun a’ kiltit backFrae snawy coats,White-ankled, leads the kirkward packWi’ Dauvit Groats.
A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks,A’ spiled wi’ lyin’ by for weeks,The guidman follows closs, an’ cleiksThe sonsie missis;His sarious face at aince bespeaksThe day that this is.
And aye an’ while we nearer drawTo whaur the kirkton lies alaw,Mair neebours, comin’ saft an’ slawFrae here an’ there,The thicker thrang the gate an’ cawThe stour in air.
But hark! the bells frae nearer clang;To rowst the slaw, their sides they bang;An’ see! black coats a’ready thrangThe green kirkyaird;And at the yett, the chestnuts spangThat brocht the laird.
The solemn elders at the plateStand drinkin’ deep the pride o’ state:The practised hands as gash an’ greatAs Lords o’ Session;The later named, a wee thing blateIn their expression.
The prentit stanes that mark the deid,Wi’ lengthened lip, the sarious read;Syne wag a moraleesin’ heid,An’ then an’ thereTheir hirplin’ practice an’ their creedTry hard to square.
It’s here our Merren lang has lain,A wee bewast the table-stane;An’ yon’s the grave o’ Sandy Blane;An’ further ower,The mither’s brithers, dacent men!Lie a’ the fower.
Here the guidman sall bide aweeTo dwall amang the deid; to seeAuld faces clear in fancy’s e’e;Belike to hearAuld voices fa’in saft an’ sleeOn fancy’s ear.
Thus, on the day o’ solemn things,The bell that in the steeple swingsTo fauld a scaittered faim’ly ringsIts walcome screed;An’ just a wee thing nearer bringsThe quick an’ deid.
But noo the bell is ringin’ in;To tak their places, folk begin;The minister himsel’ will shüneBe up the gate,Filled fu’ wi’ clavers about sinAn’ man’s estate.
The tünes are up—French, to be shüre,The faithfü’French, an’ twa-three mair;The auld prezentor, hoastin’ sair,Wales out the portions,An’ yirks the tüne into the airWi’ queer contortions.
Follows the prayer, the readin’ next,An’ than the fisslin’ for the text—The twa-three last to find it, vextBut kind o’ proud;An’ than the peppermints are raxed,An’ southernwood.
For noo’s the time whan pews are seenNid-noddin’ like a mandareen;When tenty mithers stap a preenIn sleepin’ weans;An’ nearly half the parochineForget their pains.
There’s just a waukrif’ twa or three:Thrawn commentautors sweer to ’gree,Weans glowrin’ at the bumlin’ beeOn windie-glasses,Or lads that tak a keek a-gleeAt sonsie lasses.
Himsel’, meanwhile, frae whaur he cocksAn’ bobs belaw the soundin’-box,The treesures of his words unlocksWi’ prodigality,An’ deals some unco dingin’ knocksTo infidality.
Wi’ sappy unction, hoo he burkesThe hopes o’ men that trust in works,Expounds the fau’ts o’ ither kirks,An’ shaws the best o’ themNo muckle better than mere Turks,When a’s confessed o’ them.
Bethankit! what a bonny creed!What mair would ony Christian need?—The braw words rumm’le ower his heid,Nor steer the sleeper;And in their restin’ graves, the deidSleep aye the deeper.
Note.—It may be guessed by some that I had a certain parish in my eye, and this makes it proper I should add a word of disclamation. In my time there have been two ministers in that parish. Of the first I have a special reason to speak well, even had there been any to think ill. The second I have often met in private and long (in the due phrase) “sat under” in his church, and neither here nor there have I heard an unkind or ugly word upon his lips. The preacher of the text had thus no original in that particular parish; but when I was a boy, he might have been observed in many others; he was then (like the schoolmaster) abroad; and by recent advices, it would seem he has not yet entirely disappeared.
O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—Why chops are guid to brander and nane sae guid to fry.An’ siller, that’s sae braw to keep, is brawer still to gi’e.—It’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—Hoo a’ things come to be whaur we find them when we try,The lasses in their claes an’ the fishes in the sea.—It’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—Why lads are a’ to sell an’ lasses a’ to buy;An’ naebody for dacency but barely twa or three—It’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—Gin death’s as shüre to men as killin’ is to kye,Why God has filled the yearth sae fu’ o’ tasty things to pree.—It’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar wife says I—The reason o’ the cause an’ the wherefore o’ the why,Wi’ mony anither riddle brings the tear into my e’e.—It’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
It’srainin’. Weet’s the gairden sod,Weet the lang roads whaur gangrels plod—A maist unceevil thing o’ GodIn mid July—If ye’ll just curse the sneckdraw, dod!An’ sae wull I!
He’s a braw place in Heev’n, ye ken,An’ lea’s us puir, forjaskit menClamjamfried in the but and benHe ca’s the earth—A wee bit inconvenient denNo muckle worth;
An’ whiles, at orra times, keeks out,Sees what puir mankind are about;An’ if He can, I’ve little doubt,Upsets their plans;He hates a’ mankind, brainch and root,An’ a’ that’s man’s.
An’ whiles, whan they tak heart again,An’ life i’ the sun looks braw an’ plain,Doun comes a jaw o’ droukin’ rainUpon their honours—God sends a spate outower the plain,Or mebbe thun’ers.
Lord safe us, life’s an unco thing!Simmer an’ Winter, Yule an’ Spring,The damned, dour-heartit seasons bringA feck o’ trouble.I wadnae try’t to be a king—No, nor for double.
But since we’re in it, willy-nilly,We maun be watchfü’, wise an’ skilly,An’ no mind ony ither billy,Lassie nor God.But drink—that’s my best counsel till ’e:Sae tak the nod.
Mybonny man, the warld, it’s true,Was made for neither me nor you;It’s just a place to warstle through,As job confessed o’t;And aye the best that we’ll can doIs mak the best o’t.
There’s rowth o’ wrang, I’m free to say:The simmer brunt, the winter blae,The face of earth a’ fyled wi’ clayAn’ dour wi’ chuckies,An’ life a rough an’ land’art playFor country buckies.
An’ food’s anither name for clart;An’ beasts an’ brambles bite an’ scart;An’ what wouldWEbe like, my heart!If bared o’ claethin’?—Aweel, I cannae mend your cart:It’s that or naethin’.
A feck o’ folk frae first to lastHave through this queer experience passed;Twa-three, I ken, just damn an’ blastThe hale transaction;But twa-three ithers, east an’ wast,Fand satisfaction,
Whaur braid the briery muirs expand,A waefü’ an’ a weary land,The bumblebees, a gowden band,Are blithely hingin’;An’ there the canty wanderer fandThe laverock singin’.
Trout in the burn grow great as herr’n,The simple sheep can find their fair’n’;The wind blaws clean about the cairnWi’ caller air;The muircock an’ the barefit bairnAre happy there.
Sic-like the howes o’ life to some:Green loans whaur they ne’er fash their thumb.But mark the muckle winds that comeSoopin’ an’ cool,Or hear the powrin’ burnie drumIn the shilfa’s pool.
The evil wi’ the guid they tak;They ca’ a gray thing gray, no black;To a steigh brae, a stubborn backAddressin’ daily;An’ up the rude, unbieldy trackO’ life, gang gaily.
What you would like’s a palace ha’,Or Sinday parlour dink an’ brawWi’ a’ things ordered in a rawBy denty leddies.Weel, than, ye cannae hae’t: that’s a’That to be said is.
An’ since at life ye’ve taen the grue,An’ winnae blithely hirsle through,Ye’ve fund the very thing to do—That’s to drink speerit;An’ shüne we’ll hear the last o’ you—An’ blithe to hear it!
The shoon ye coft, the life ye lead,Ithers will heir when aince ye’re deid;They’ll heir your tasteless bite o’ breid,An’ find it sappy;They’ll to your dulefü’ house succeed,An’ there be happy.
As whan a glum an’ fractious weanHas sat an’ sullened by his laneTill, wi’ a rowstin’ skelp, he’s taenAn’ shoo’d to bed—The ither bairns a’ fa’ to play’n’,As gleg’s a gled.
It’sstrange that God should fash to frameThe yearth and lift sae hie,An’ clean forget to explain the sameTo a gentleman like me.
They gutsy, donnered ither folk,Their weird they weel may dree;But why present a pig in a pokeTo a gentleman like me?
They ither folk their parritch eatAn’ sup their sugared tea;But the mind is no to be wyled wi’ meatWi’ a gentleman like me.
They ither folk, they court their joesAt gloamin’ on the lea;But they’re made of a commoner clay, I suppose,Than a gentleman like me.
They ither folk, for richt or wrang,They suffer, bleed, or dee;But a’ thir things are an emp’y sangTo a gentleman like me.
It’s a different thing that I demand,Tho’ humble as can be—A statement fair in my Maker’s handTo a gentleman like me:
A clear account writ fair an’ broad,An’ a plain apologie;Or the deevil a ceevil word to GodFrom a gentleman like me.
DearThamson class, whaure’er I gangIt aye comes ower me wi’ a spang:“Lordsake!they Thamson lads—(deil hangOr else Lord mend them!)—An’ that wanchancy annual sangI ne’er can send them!”
Straucht, at the name, a trusty tyke,My conscience girrs ahint the dyke;Straucht on my hinderlands I fykeTo find a rhyme t’ ye;Pleased—although mebbe no pleased-like—To gie my time t’ye.
“Weel,” an’ says you, wi’ heavin’ breist,“Sae far,sae guid,but what’s the neist?Yearly we gaither to the feast,A’ hopefü’ men—Yearly we skelloch‘Hang the beast—Nae sang again!’”
My lads, an’ what am I to say?Ye shürely ken the Muse’s way:Yestreen, as gleg’s a tyke—the day,Thrawn like a cuddy:Her conduc’, that to her’s a play,Deith to a body.
Aft whan I sat an’ made my mane,Aft whan I laboured burd-alaneFishin’ for rhymes an’ findin’ nane,Or nane were fit for ye—Ye judged me cauld’s a chucky stane—No car’n’ a bit for ye!
But saw ye ne’er some pingein’ bairnAs weak as a pitaty-par’n’—Less üsed wi’ guidin’ horse-shoe airnThan steerin’ crowdie—Packed aff his lane, by moss an’ cairn,To ca’ the howdie.
Wae’s me, for the puir callant than!He wambles like a poke o’ bran,An’ the lowse rein, as hard’s he can,Pu’s, trem’lin’ handit;Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan’Behauld him landit.
Sic-like—I awn the weary fac’—Whan on my muse the gate I tak,An’ see her gleed e’e raxin’ backTo keek ahint her;—To me, the brig o’ Heev’n gangs blackAs blackest winter.
“Lordsake!we’re aff,” thinks I, “but whaur?On what abhorred an’ whinny scaur,Or whammled in what sea o’ glaur,Will she desert me?An’ will she just disgrace?or waur—Will she no hurt me?”
Kittle the quaere! But at leastThe day I’ve backed the fashious beast,While she, wi’ mony a spang an’ reist,Flang heels ower bonnet;An’ a’ triumphant—for your feast,Hae! there’s your sonnet!
TheLord Himsel’ in former daysWaled out the proper tünes for praiseAn’ named the proper kind o’ claesFor folk to preach in:Preceese and in the chief o’ waysImportant teachin’.
He ordered a’ things late and air’;He ordered folk to stand at prayer,(Although I cannae just mind whereHe gave the warnin’,)An’ pit pomatum on their hairOn Sabbath mornin’.
The hale o’ life by His commandsWas ordered to a body’s hands;But see! thiscorpus jurisstandsBy a’ forgotten;An’ God’s religion in a’ landsIs deid an’ rotten.
While thus the lave o’ mankind’s lost,O’ Scotland still God maks His boast—Puir Scotland, on whase barren coastA score or twaAuld wives wi’ mutches an’ a hoastStill keep His law.
In Scotland, a wheen canty, plain,Douce, kintry-leevin’ folk retainThe Truth—or did so aince—alaneOf a’ men leevin’;An’ noo just twa o’ them remain—Just Begg an’ Niven.
For noo, unfaithfü’, to the LordAuld Scotland joins the rebel horde;Her human hymn-books on the boardShe noo displays:An’ Embro Hie Kirk’s been restoredIn popish ways.
Opunctum temporisfor actionTo a’ o’ the reformin’ faction,If yet, by ony act or paction,Thocht, word, or sermon,This dark an’ damnable transactionMicht yet determine!
For see—as Doctor Begg explains—Hoo easy ’t’s düne! a pickle weans,Wha in the Hie Street gaither stanesBy his instruction,The uncovenantit, pentit panesDing to destruction.
Up, Niven, or ower late—an’ dashLaigh in the glaur that carnal hash;Let spires and pews wi’ gran’ stramashThegether fa’;The rumlin’ kist o’ whustles smashIn pieces sma’.
Noo choose ye out a walie hammer;About the knottit buttress clam’er;Alang the steep roof stoyt an’ stammer,A gate mis-chancy;On the aul’ spire, the bells’ hie cha’mer,Dance your bit dancie.
Ding, devel, dunt, destroy, an’ ruin,Wi’ carnal stanes the square bestrewin’,Till your loud chaps frae Kyle to Fruin,Frae Hell to Heeven,Tell the guid wark that baith are doin’—Baith Begg an’ Niven.
In a letter from Mr. Thomson to Mr. Johnstone.
Inmony a foreign pairt I’ve been,An’ mony an unco ferlie seen,Since, Mr. Johnstone, you and ILast walkit upon Cocklerye.Wi’ gleg, observant een, I pass’tBy sea an’ land, through East an’ Wast,And still in ilka age an’ stationSaw naething but abomination.In thir uncovenantit landsThe gangrel Scot uplifts his hands
At lack of a’ sectarian füsh’n,An’ cauld religious destitütion.He rins, puir man, frae place to place,Tries a’ their graceless means o’ grace,Preacher on preacher, kirk on kirk—This yin a stot an’ thon a stirk—A bletherin’ clan, no warth a preen,As bad as Smith of Aiberdeen!
At last, across the weary faem,Frae far, outlandish pairts I came.On ilka side o’ me I fandFresh tokens o’ my native land.Wi’ whatna joy I hailed them a’—The hilltaps standin’ raw by raw,The public house, the Hielan’ birks,And a’ the bonny U.P. kirks!But maistly thee, the bluid o’ Scots,Frae Maidenkirk to John o’ Grots,The king o’ drinks, as I conceive it,Talisker, Isla, or Glenlivet!
For after years wi’ a pockmantieFrae Zanzibar to Alicante,In mony a fash and sair afflictionI gie’t as my sincere conviction—Of a’ their foreign tricks an’ pliskies,I maist abominate their whiskies.Nae doot, themsel’s, they ken it weel,An’ wi’ a hash o’ leemon peel,And ice an’ siccan filth, they ettleThe stawsome kind o’ goo to settle;Sic wersh apothecary’s broos wi’As Scotsmen scorn to fyle their moo’s wi’.
An’, man, I was a blithe hame-comerWhan first I syndit out my rummer.Ye should hae seen me then, wi’ careThe less important pairts prepare;Syne, weel contentit wi’ it a’,Pour in the sperrits wi’ a jaw!I didnae drink, I didnae speak,—I only snowkit up the reek.I was sae pleased therein to paidle,I sat an’ plowtered wi’ my ladle.
An’ blithe was I, the morrow’s morn,To daunder through the stookit corn,And after a’ my strange mishanters,Sit doun amang my ain dissenters.An’, man, it was a joy to meThe pu’pit an’ the pews to see,The pennies dirlin’ in the plate,The elders lookin’ on in state;An’ ’mang the first, as it befell,Wha should I see, sir, but yoursel’
I was, and I will no deny it,At the first gliff a hantle tryitTo see yoursel’ in sic a station—It seemed a doubtfü’ dispensation.The feelin’ was a mere digression;For shüne I understood the session,An’ mindin’ Aiken an’ M‘Neil,I wondered they had düne sae weel.I saw I had mysel’ to blame;For had I but remained at hame,Aiblins—though no ava’ deservin’ ’t—They micht hae named your humble servant.
The kirk was filled, the door was steeked;Up to the pu’pit ance I keeked;I was mair pleased than I can tell—It was the minister himsel’!Proud, proud was I to see his face,After sae lang awa’ frae grace.Pleased as I was, I’m no denyin’Some maitters were not edifyin’;For first I fand—an’ here was news!—Mere hymn-books cockin’ in the pews—A humanised abomination,Unfit for ony congregation.Syne, while I still was on the tenter,I scunnered at the new prezentor;I thocht him gesterin’ an’ cauld—A sair declension frae the auld.Syne, as though a’ the faith was wreckit,The prayer was not what I’d exspeckit.Himsel’, as it appeared to me,Was no the man he üsed to be.But just as I was growin’ vextHe waled a maist judeecious text,An’, launchin’ into his prelections,Swoopt, wi’ a skirl, on a’ defections.
O what a gale was on my speeritTo hear the p’ints o’ doctrine clearit,And a’ the horrors o’ damnationSet furth wi’ faithfü’ ministration!Nae shauchlin’ testimony here—We were a’ damned, an’ that was clear,I owned, wi’ gratitude an’ wonder,He was a pleisure to sit under.
Latein the nicht in bed I lay,The winds were at their weary play,An’ tirlin’ wa’s an’ skirlin’ waeThrough Heev’n they battered;—On-ding o’ hail, on-blaff o’ spray,The tempest blattered.
The masoned house it dinled through;It dung the ship, it cowped the coo’.The rankit aiks it overthrew,Had braved a’ weathers;The strang sea-gleds it took an’ blewAwa’ like feathers.
The thrawes o’ fear on a’ were shed,An’ the hair rose, an’ slumber fled,An’ lichts were lit an’ prayers were saidThrough a’ the kintry;An’ the cauld terror clum in bedWi’ a’ an’ sindry.
To hear in the pit-mirk on hieThe brangled collieshangie flie,The warl’, they thocht, wi’ land an’ sea,Itsel’ wad cowpit;An’ for auld airn, the smashed debrisBy God be rowpit.
Meanwhile frae far Aldeboran,To folks wi’ talescopes in han’,O’ ships that cowpit, winds that ran,Nae sign was seen,But the wee warl’ in sunshine spanAs bricht’s a preen.
I, tae, by God’s especial grace,Dwall denty in a bieldy place,Wi’ hosened feet, wi’ shaven face,Wi’ dacent mainners:A grand example to the raceO’ tautit sinners!
The wind may blaw, the heathen rage,The deil may start on the rampage;—The sick in bed, the thief in cage—What’s a’ to me?Cosh in my house, a sober sage,I sit an’ see.
An’ whiles the bluid spangs to my bree,To lie sae saft, to live sae free,While better men maun do an’ dieIn unco places.“Whaur’s God?” I cry, an’ “Whae is meTo hae sic graces?”
I mind the fecht the sailors keep,But fire or can’le, rest or sleep,In darkness an’ the muckle deep;An’ mind besideThe herd that on the hills o’ sheepHas wandered wide.
I mind me on the hoastin’ weans—The penny joes on causey stanes—The auld folk wi’ the crazy banes,Baith auld an’ puir,That aye maun thole the winds an’ rainsAn’ labour sair.
An’ whiles I’m kind o’ pleased a blink,An’ kind o’ fleyed forby, to think,For a’ my rowth o’ meat an’ drinkAn’ waste o’ crumb,I’ll mebbe have to thole wi’ skinkIn Kingdom Come.
For God whan jowes the Judgment bell,Wi’ His ain Hand, His Leevin’ Sel’,Sall ryve the guid (as Prophets tell)Frae them that had it;And in the reamin’ pat o’ Hell,The rich be scaddit.
O Lord, if this indeed be sae,Let daw that sair an’ happy day!Again’ the warl’, grawn auld an’ gray,Up wi’ your aixe!An’ let the puir enjoy their play—I’ll thole my paiks.
Ofa’ the ills that flesh can fear,The loss o’ frien’s, the lack o’ gear,A yowlin’ tyke, a glandered mear,A lassie’s nonsense—There’s just ae thing I cannae bear,An’ that’s my conscience.
Whan day (an’ a’ excüse) has gane,An’ wark is düne, and duty’s plain,An’ to my chalmer a’ my laneI creep apairt,My conscience! hoo the yammerin’ painStends to my heart!
A’ day wi’ various ends in viewThe hairsts o’ time I had to pu’,An’ made a hash wad staw a soo,Let be a man!—My conscience! whan my han’s were fu’,Whaur were ye than?
An’ there were a’ the lures o’ life,There pleesure skirlin’ on the fife,There anger, wi’ the hotchin’ knifeGround shairp in Hell—My conscience!—you that’s like a wife!—Whaur was yoursel’?
I ken it fine: just waitin’ here,To gar the evil waur appear,To clart the guid, confüse the clear,Mis-ca’ the great,My conscience! an’ to raise a steerWhan a’s ower late.
Sic-like, some tyke grawn auld and blind,Whan thieves brok’ through the gear to p’ind,Has lain his dozened length an’ grinnedAt the disaster;An’ the morn’s mornin’, wud’s the wind,Yokes on his master.
(Whan the dear doctor,dear to a’,Was still amang us here belaw,I set my pipes his praise to blawWi’ a’ my speerit;But noo,Dear Doctor!he’s awa’,An’ ne’er can hear it.)
ByLyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees,By a’ the various river-Dee’s,In Mars and Manors ’yont the seasOr here at hame,Whaure’er there’s kindly folk to please,They ken your name.
They ken your name, they ken your tyke,They ken the honey from your byke;But mebbe after a’ your fyke,(The trüth to tell)It’s just your honest Rab they like,An’ no yoursel’.
As at the gowff, some canny play’rShould tee a common ba’ wi’ care—Should flourish and deleever fairHis souple shintie—An’ the ba’ rise into the air,A leevin’ lintie:
Sae in the game we writers play,There comes to some a bonny day,When a dear ferlie shall repayTheir years o’ strife,An’ like your Rab, their things o’ clay,Spreid wings o’ life.
Ye scarce deserved it, I’m afraid—You that had never learned the trade,But just some idle mornin’ strayedInto the schüle,An’ picked the fiddle up an’ playedLike Neil himsel’.
Your e’e was gleg, your fingers dink;Ye didnae fash yoursel’ to think,But wove, as fast as puss can link,Your denty wab:—Ye stapped your pen into the ink,An’ there was Rab!
Sinsyne, whaure’er your fortune layBy dowie den, by canty brae,Simmer an’ winter, nicht an’ day,Rab was aye wi’ ye;An’ a’ the folk on a’ the wayWere blithe to see ye.
O sir, the gods are kind indeed,An’ hauld ye for an honoured heid,That for a wee bit clarkit screedSae weel reward ye,An’ lend—puir Rabbie bein’ deid—His ghaist to guard ye.
For though, whaure’er yoursel’ may be,We’ve just to turn an’ glisk a wee,An’ Rab at heel we’re shüre to seeWi’ gladsome caper:—The bogle of a bogle, he—A ghaist o’ paper!
And as the auld-farrand hero seesIn Hell a bogle Hercules,Pit there the lesser deid to please,While he himsel’Dwalls wi’ the muckle gods at easeFar raised frae hell:
Sae the true Rabbie far has ganeOn kindlier business o’ his ainWi’ aulder frien’s; an’ his breist-baneAn’ stumpie tailie,He birstles at a new hearth staneBy James and Ailie.
It’san owercome sooth for age an’ youthAnd it brooks wi’ nae denial,That the dearest friends are the auldest friendsAnd the young are just on trial.
There’s a rival bauld wi’ young an’ auldAnd it’s him that has bereft me;For the sürest friends are the auldest friendsAnd the maist o’ mines hae left me.
There are kind hearts still, for friends to fillAnd fools to take and break them;But the nearest friends are the auldest friendsAnd the grave’s the place to seek them.