Part 6

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 shining Fu’ 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 only slaes: The third cam up, hap-stap-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 bonie face But yet I canna name ye.” Quo’ she, an’ laughin as she spak, An’ taks me by the han’s, “Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck Of a’ the ten comman’s A screed some day.”

“My name is Fun—your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae; An’ this is Superstitution 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, “Wi’ 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-time, An’ soon I made me ready; For roads were clad, frae side to side, Wi’ mony a weary body In droves that day.

Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, Gaed hoddin by their cotters; There swankies young, in braw braid-claith, Are springing owre the gutters. The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, In silks an’ scarlets glitter; Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in mony 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 bleth’rin Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs, An’ screen our countra gentry; There Racer Jess,2 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, Comes clinkin down beside him! Wi’ arms repos’d on the chair back, He sweetly does compose 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 Moodie3 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, Smith4 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 time comes an antidote Against sic poison’d nostrum; For Peebles,5 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 taen the road, An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate6 Fast, fast that day.

Wee Miller7 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’ercomes him At times that day.

Now, butt an’ ben, the change-house fills, Wi’ yill-caup commentators; 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.

In comes 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.

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 Come 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 Till kye be gaun without the herd, And a’ the vittel in the yard, An’ theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to guard Ae winter night.

Then muse-inspirin’ aqua-vitae Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty, Till ye forget ye’re auld an’ gatty, An’ be as canty As ye were nine years less than thretty— Sweet ane an’ twenty!

But stooks are cowpit wi’ the blast, And now the sinn keeks in the west, Then I maun rin amang the rest, An’ quat my chanter; Sae I subscribe myself’ in haste, Yours, Rab the Ranter.

Epistle To The Rev. John M’math

Sept. 13, 1785.

Inclosing A Copy Of “Holy Willie’s Prayer,” Which He Had Requested, Sept. 17, 1785

While at the stook the shearers cow’r To shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r, Or in gulravage rinnin scowr To pass the time, To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme.

My musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnet On gown, an’ ban’, an’ douse black bonnet, Is grown right eerie now she’s done it, Lest they should blame her, An’ rouse their holy thunder on it An anathem her.

I own ’twas rash, an’ rather hardy, That I, a simple, country bardie, Should meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi’ a single wordie, Lowse hell upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces, Their three-mile prayers, an’ half-mile graces, Their raxin conscience, Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense.

There’s Gaw’n, misca’d waur than a beast, Wha has mair honour in his breast Than mony scores as guid’s the priest Wha sae abus’d him: And may a bard no crack his jest What way they’ve us’d him?

See him, the poor man’s friend in need, The gentleman in word an’ deed— An’ shall his fame an’ honour bleed By worthless, skellums, An’ not a muse erect her head To cowe the blellums?

O Pope, had I thy satire’s darts To gie the rascals their deserts, I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts, An’ tell aloud Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd.

God knows, I’m no the thing I should be, Nor am I even the thing I could be, But twenty times I rather would be An atheist clean, Than under gospel colours hid be Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass, An honest man may like a lass, But mean revenge, an’ malice fause He’ll still disdain, An’ then cry zeal for gospel laws, Like some we ken.

They take religion in their mouth; They talk o’ mercy, grace, an’ truth, For what?—to gie their malice skouth On some puir wight, An’ hunt him down, owre right and ruth, To ruin straight.

All hail, Religion! maid divine! Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, Who in her rough imperfect line Thus daurs to name thee; To stigmatise false friends of thine Can ne’er defame thee.

Tho’ blotch’t and foul wi’ mony a stain, An’ far unworthy of thy train, With trembling voice I tune my strain, To join with those Who boldly dare thy cause maintain In spite of foes:

In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mobs, In spite o’ undermining jobs, In spite o’ dark banditti stabs At worth an’ merit, By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes, But hellish spirit.

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground, Within thy presbyterial bound A candid liberal band is found Of public teachers, As men, as Christians too, renown’d, An’ manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam’d; Sir, in that circle you are fam’d; An’ some, by whom your doctrine’s blam’d (Which gies you honour) Even, sir, by them your heart’s esteem’d, An’ winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta’en, An’ if impertinent I’ve been, Impute it not, good Sir, in ane Whase heart ne’er wrang’d ye, But to his utmost would befriend Ought that belang’d ye.

Second Epistle to Davie

A Brother Poet

Auld Neibour, I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor, For your auld-farrant, frien’ly letter; Tho’ I maun say’t I doubt ye flatter, Ye speak sae fair; For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle, Lang may your elbuck jink diddle, To cheer you thro’ the weary widdle O’ war’ly cares; Till barins’ barins kindly cuddle Your auld grey hairs.

But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit; I’m tauld the muse ye hae negleckit; An, gif it’s sae, ye sud by lickit Until ye fyke; Sic haun’s as you sud ne’er be faikit, Be hain’t wha like.

For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink, Rivin the words to gar them clink; Whiles dazed wi’ love, whiles dazed wi’ drink, Wi’ jads or masons; An’ whiles, but aye owre late, I think Braw sober lessons.

Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man, Commen’ to me the bardie clan; Except it be some idle plan O’ rhymin clink, The devil haet,—that I sud ban— They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin, Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin, But just the pouchie put the neive in, An’ while ought’s there, Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin’, An’ fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure, My chief, amaist my only pleasure; At hame, a-fiel’, at wark, or leisure, The Muse, poor hizzie! Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure, She’s seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my daintie Davie: The warl’ may play you mony a shavie; But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye, Tho’ e’er sae puir, Na, even tho’ limpin wi’ the spavie Frae door tae door.

Song—Young Peggy Blooms

Tune—“Loch Eroch-side.”

Young Peggy blooms our boniest lass, Her blush is like the morning, The rosy dawn, the springing grass, With early gems adorning. Her eyes outshine the radiant beams That gild the passing shower, And glitter o’er the crystal streams, And cheer each fresh’ning flower.

Her lips, more than the cherries bright, A richer dye has graced them; They charm th’ admiring gazer’s sight, And sweetly tempt to taste them; Her smile is as the evening mild, When feather’d pairs are courting, And little lambkins wanton wild, In playful bands disporting.

Were Fortune lovely Peggy’s foe, Such sweetness would relent her; As blooming spring unbends the brow Of surly, savage Winter. Detraction’s eye no aim can gain, Her winning pow’rs to lessen; And fretful Envy grins in vain The poison’d tooth to fasten.

Ye Pow’rs of Honour, Love, and Truth, From ev’ry ill defend her! Inspire the highly-favour’d youth The destinies intend her: Still fan the sweet connubial flame Responsive in each bosom; And bless the dear parental name With many a filial blossom.

Song—Farewell To Ballochmyle

Tune—“Miss Forbe’s farewell to Banff.”

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decay’d on Catrine lee, Nae lav’rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken’d on the e’e. Thro’ faded groves Maria sang, Hersel’ in beauty’s bloom the while; And aye the wild-wood ehoes rang, Fareweel the braes o’ Ballochmyle!

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Again ye’ll flourish fresh and fair; Ye birdies dumb, in with’ring bowers, Again ye’ll charm the vocal air. But here, alas! for me nae mair Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; Fareweel the bonie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!

Fragment—Her Flowing Locks

Her flowing locks, the raven’s wing, Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to cling, And round that neck entwine her!

Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew, O’ what a feast her bonie mou’! Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, A crimson still diviner!

Halloween1

The following poem will, by many readers, be well enough understood; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, notes are added to give some account of the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland. The passion of prying into futurity makes a striking part of the history of human nature in its rude state, in all ages and nations; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind, if any such honour the author with a perusal, to see the remains of it among the more unenlightened in our own.—R.B.

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, The simple pleasure of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art.—Goldsmith.

Upon that night, when fairies light On Cassilis Downans2 dance, Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, On sprightly coursers prance; Or for Colean the rout is ta’en, Beneath the moon’s pale beams; There, up the Cove,3 to stray an’ rove, Amang the rocks and streams To sport that night;

Amang the bonie winding banks, Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear; Where Bruce4 ance rul’d the martial ranks, An’ shook his Carrick spear; Some merry, friendly, countra-folks Together did convene, To burn their nits, an’ pou their stocks, An’ haud their Halloween Fu’ blythe that night.

The lasses feat, an’ cleanly neat, Mair braw than when they’re fine; Their faces blythe, fu’ sweetly kythe, Hearts leal, an’ warm, an’ kin’: The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babs Weel-knotted on their garten; Some unco blate, an’ some wi’ gabs Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin Whiles fast at night.

Then, first an’ foremost, thro’ the kail, Their stocks5 maun a’ be sought ance;

They steek their een, and grape an’ wale For muckle anes, an’ straught anes. Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift, An’ wandered thro’ the bow-kail, An’ pou’t for want o’ better shift A runt was like a sow-tail Sae bow’t that night.

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, They roar an’ cry a’ throu’ther; The vera wee-things, toddlin, rin, Wi’ stocks out owre their shouther: An’ gif the custock’s sweet or sour, Wi’ joctelegs they taste them; Syne coziely, aboon the door, Wi’ cannie care, they’ve plac’d them To lie that night.

The lassies staw frae ’mang them a’, To pou their stalks o’ corn;6 But Rab slips out, an’ jinks about, Behint the muckle thorn: He grippit Nelly hard and fast: Loud skirl’d a’ the lasses; But her tap-pickle maist was lost, Whan kiutlin in the fause-house7 Wi’ him that night.

The auld guid-wife’s weel-hoordit nits8 Are round an’ round dividend, An’ mony lads an’ lasses’ fates Are there that night decided: Some kindle couthie side by side, And burn thegither trimly; Some start awa wi’ saucy pride, An’ jump out owre the chimlie Fu’ high that night.

Jean slips in twa, wi’ tentie e’e; Wha ’twas, she wadna tell; But this is Jock, an’ this is me, She says in to hersel’: He bleez’d owre her, an’ she owre him, As they wad never mair part: Till fuff! he started up the lum, An’ Jean had e’en a sair heart To see’t that night.

Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt, Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie; An’ Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt, To be compar’d to Willie: Mall’s nit lap out, wi’ pridefu’ fling, An’ her ain fit, it brunt it; While Willie lap, and swore by jing, ’Twas just the way he wanted To be that night.

Nell had the fause-house in her min’, She pits hersel an’ Rob in; In loving bleeze they sweetly join, Till white in ase they’re sobbin: Nell’s heart was dancin at the view; She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t: Rob, stownlins, prie’d her bonie mou’, Fu’ cozie in the neuk for’t, Unseen that night.

But Merran sat behint their backs, Her thoughts on Andrew Bell: She lea’es them gashin at their cracks, An’ slips out—by hersel’; She thro’ the yard the nearest taks, An’ for the kiln she goes then, An’ darklins grapit for the bauks, And in the blue-clue9 throws then, Right fear’t that night.