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' back
To keek ahint her; -
To me, the brig o' Heev'n gangs black
As 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 least
The 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!
XI - EMBRO HIE KIRK
The Lord Himsel' in former days
Waled out the proper tunes for praise
An' named the proper kind o' claes
For folk to
preach in:
Preceese and in the chief o' ways
Important teachin'.
He ordered a' things late and air';
He ordered folk to stand at prayer,
(Although I cannae just mind where
He gave the warnin',)
An' pit pomatum on their hair
On Sabbath mornin'.
The hale o' life by His commands
Was ordered to a body's hands;
But see! this CORPUS JURIS stands
By a' forgotten;
An' God's religion in a' lands
Is deid an' rotten.
While thus the lave o' mankind's lost,
O' Scotland still God maks His boast -
Puir Scotland, on whase
barren coast
A score or twa
Auld wives wi' mutches an' a hoast
Still keep His law.
In Scotland, a wheen canty, plain,
Douce, kintry-leevin' folk retain
The Truth - or did so aince - alane
Of a' men leevin';
An' noo just twa o' them remain -
Just Begg an' Niven.
For noo, unfaithfu', to the Lord
Auld Scotland joins the rebel horde;
Her human hymn-books on the board
She noo displays:
An' Embro Hie Kirk's been restored
In popish ways.
O PUNCTUM TEMPORIS for action
To a' o' the reformin' faction,
If yet, by ony act or paction,
Thocht, word, or sermon,
This dark an' damnable transaction
Micht yet determine!
For see - as Doctor Begg explains -
Hoo easy 't's dune! a
pickle weans,
Wha in the Hie Street gaither stanes
By his instruction,
The uncovenantit, pentit panes
Ding to destruction.
Up, Niven, or ower late - an' dash
Laigh in the glaur that carnal hash;
Let spires and pews wi' gran' stramash
Thegether fa';
The rumlin' kist o' whustles smash
In 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.
XII - THE SCOTSMAN'S RETURN FROM ABROAD
In a letter from Mr. Thomson to Mr. Johnstone.
In mony a foreign pairt I've been,
An' mony an unco ferlie seen,
Since, Mr. Johnstone, you and I
Last walkit upon Cocklerye.
Wi' gleg, observant een, I pass't
By sea an' land, through East an' Wast,
And still in ilka age an' station
Saw naething but abomination.
In thir uncovenantit lands
The gangrel Scot uplifts his hands
At lack of a' sectarian fush'n,
An' cauld religious destitution.
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 fand
Fresh 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 pockmantie
Frae Zanzibar to Alicante,
In mony a fash and sair affliction
I gie't as my
sincereconviction -
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 ettle
The 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-comer
Whan first I syndit out my rummer.
Ye should hae seen me then, wi' care
The 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 me
The 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 tryit
To see yoursel' in sic a station -
It seemed a doubtfu' dispensation.
The feelin' was a mere digression;
For shune I understood the session,
An' mindin' Aiken an' M'Neil,
I wondered they had dune 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 used to be.
But just as I was growin' vext
He waled a maist judeecious text,
An', launchin' into his prelections,
Swoopt, wi' a skirl, on a' defections.
O what a gale was on my speerit
To hear the p'ints o'
doctrine clearit,
And a' the horrors o' damnation
Set furth wi' faithfu' 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.
XIII