an' screen our countra gentry;
there racer jess, an' twa-three whores,
are blinkin at the entry.
here sits a raw o' tittlin jads,
wi' heaving breast an' bare neck;
an' there a batch o' wabster lads,
blackguarding frae kilmarnock,
for 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' screwed-up, grace-proud faces;
on that a set o' chaps, at watch,
thrang winkin on the lasses
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,
es clinkin down beside him!
wi' arms repos'd on the chair back,
he sweetly doespose him;
which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
an's loof upon her bosom,
unkend that day.
now a' the congregation o'er
is silent expectation;
for moodie speels 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 him
wi' fright that day.
hear how he clears the point o' faith
wi' rattlin and 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 squeel an' gestures,
o how they fire the heart devout,
like cantharidian plaisters
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' barrels
a lift that day.
what signifies his barren shine,
of moral powers 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 timees an antidote
against 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,
whilemon-sense has taen the road,
an' aff, an' up the cowgate
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, cannilie he hums them;
altho' his carnal wit an' sense
like hafflins-wise o'ees him
at times that day.
now, butt an' ben, the change-house fills,
wi' yill-caupmentators;
here 's cryin 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 rupture
o' wrath that day.
leeze me on drink! it gies us mair
than either school or college;
it kindles wit, it waukens lear,
it pangs us fou o' knowledge:
be't whisky-gill or penny wheep,
or ony stronger potion,
it never fails, or drinkin deep,
to kittle up our notion,
by night or day.
the lads an' lasses, blythely bent
to 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 makin observations;
while some are cozie i' the neuk,
an' forming assignations
to meet some day.
but now the lord's ain trumpet touts,
till a' the hills are rairin,
and echoes back return the shouts;
black russell is na sparin:
his piercin words, like highlan' swords,
divide the joints an' marrow;
his talk o' hell, whare devils dwell,
our vera “sauls does harrow”
wi' fright that day!
a vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane,
whase raging flame, an' scorching 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 neibor snorin
asleep that day.
'twad be owre lang a tale to tell,
how mony stories past;
an' how they crouded 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.
ines a gawsie, 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' gies 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 yoursel'
how bonie lads ye wanted;
an' dinna for a kebbuck-heel
let lasses be affronted
on sic a day!
now clinkumbell, wi' rattlin 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 tune
for crack that day.
how mony hearts this day converts
o' 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' mony jobs that day begin,
may end in houghmagandie
some ither day.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns third epistle to j. lapraik third epistle to j. lapraik
guid speed and furder to you, johnie,
guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonie;
now, when ye're nickin down fu' cannie
the staff o' bread,
may ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y
to clear your head.
may boreas never thresh your rigs,
nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
sendin the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs
like drivin wrack;
but may the tapmost grain that wags
e to the sack.
i'm bizzie, too, an' skelpin at it,
but bitter, daudin showers hae wat it;
sae my auld stumpie pen i gat it
wi' muckle wark,
an' took my jocteleg an whatt it,
like ony clark.
it's now twa month that i'm your debtor,
for your braw, nameless, dateless letter,
abusin me for harsh ill-nature
on holy men,
while deil a hair yoursel' ye're better,
but mair profane.
but let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
let's sing about our noble sel's:
we'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills
to help, or roose us;
but browster wives an' whisky stills,
they are the muses.
your friendship, sir, i winna quat it,
an' if ye mak' objections at it,
then hand in neive some day we'll knot it,
an' witness take,
an' when wi' usquabae we've wat it
it winna break.
but if the beast an' branks be spar'd