THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 19

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 19

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 lasses

To 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'er

Is 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 him

Wi' fright that day.

 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith

Wi' 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' barrels

A 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 in

That's right that day.

 

In guid time comes 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,

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' sense

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him

At 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 rupture

O' wrath that day.

 

Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair

Than 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 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 making observations;

While some are cozie i' the neuk,

An' formin' assignations

To 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 tell

How 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 yoursel

How bonnie lads ye wanted,

An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,

Let lasses be affronted

On 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 tune

For crack that day.

 

How monie 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' monie jobs that day begin

May end in houghmagandie

Some ither day.

 

FOOTNOTES:

 

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

 

[Footnote 13: Shakespeare's Hamlet.]

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XXI.

 

THE ORDINATION.

 

"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 libations

For 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 her

Wi' 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 her

Wi' 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 tiger

I' th' inn that day.

 

There, try his mettle on the creed,

And bind him down wi' caution,

That stipend is a carnal weed

He 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 kail

Shall 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 bairn

He'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-weaver

Aff-hand this day.

 

Mutrie and you were just a match

We 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 faes

She'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 Beattie

Her 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 decoys

Shall 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 shorter

By 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 fusion

Like oil, some day.

 

FOOTNOTES:

 

[Footnote 14: Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the

admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigh

Kirk.]

 

[Footnote 15: Genesis, ix. 22.]

 

[Footnote 16: Numbers, xxv. 8.]

 

[Footnote 17: Exodus, iv. 25.]

 

[Footnote 18: "New Light" is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for

those religions opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended.]

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XXII.

 

THE CALF.

 

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN.

 

On his text, MALACHI, iv. 2--"And ye shall go forth, and grow

up as CALVES of 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 hour

Shall 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 wear

A noble head of horns.

 

And in your lug, most reverend James,

To hear you roar and rowte,

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims

To 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!"

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XXIII.

 

TO JAMES SMITH.

 

"Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!

Sweet'ner of life and solder of society!

I owe thee much!--"

 

BLAIR.

 

[The James Smith, to whom this epistle is addressed, was at that time

a small shop-keeper in Mauchline, and the comrade or rather follower of

the poet in all his merry expeditions with "Yill-caup commentators."

He was present in Poosie Nansie's when the Jolly Beggars first dawned

on the fancy of Burns: the comrades of the poet's heart were not

generally very successful in life: Smith left Mauchline, and

established a calico-printing manufactory at Avon near Linlithgow,