An’ shoo’d to bed — —
The ither bairns a’ fa’ to play’n’,
As gleg’s a gled.
IX
THE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL
It’s strange that God should fash to frame
The yearth and lift sae hie,
An’ clean forget to explain the same
To a gentleman like me.
Thae gusty, donnered ither folk,
Their weird they weel may dree;
But why present a pig in a poke
To a gentleman like me?
Thae ither folk their parritch eat
An’ sup their sugared tea;
But the mind is no’ to be wyled wi’ meat
Wi’ a gentleman like me.
Thae ither folk, they court their joes
At gloamin’ on the lea;
But they’re made of a commoner clay, I suppose,
Than a gentleman like me.
Thae ither folk, for richt or wrang,
They suffer, bleed, or dee;
But a’ thir things are an emp’y sang
To a gentleman like me.
It’s a different thing that I demand,
Tho’ humble as can be —
A statement fair in my Maker’s hand
To a gentleman like me:
A clear account writ fair an’ broad,
An’ a plain apologie;
Or the deevil a ceevil word to God
From a gentleman like me.
X
THEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY CLASS
DINNER CLUB
Dear Thamson class, whaure’er I gang
It aye comes ower me wi’ a spang:
“Lordsake! thae Thamson lads — (deil hang
Or else Lord mend them!) —
An’ that wanchancy annual sang
I ne’er can send them!”
Straucht, at the name, a trusty tyke,
My conscience girrs ahint the dyke;
Straucht on my hinderlands I fyke
To 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 gather 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-alane
Fishin’ 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’ bairn
As weak as a pitaty-par’n’ —
Less üsed wi’ guidin’ horse-shoe aim
Than 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’ 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 quære! 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 canna 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, unfaithfü’ 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 düne! 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
Thegither 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 mischancy;
On the aul’ spire, the bells’ hie cha’mer,
Dance your bit dancie.
Ding, devel, dunt, destroy, an’ ruin,
Wi’ carnal stanes the square bestrewn’,
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.
I
n thir uncovenantit lands
The 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 fand
Fresh tokens o’ my native land.
Wi’ whatna joy I hailed them a’ —
The hill-taps 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’ Groats!
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 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 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 speerits wi’ a jaw!
I didna drink, I didna 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 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 steiked;
Up to the pu’pit aince 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’ 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’ faithfü’ ministration!
Nae shauchlin’ testimony here —
We were a’ damned, an’ that was clear.
I owned, wi’ gratitude an’ wonder,
He was a pleesure to sit under.
XIII
Late in the nicht in bed I lay,
The winds were at their weary play,
An’ tirlin’ wa’s an’ skirlin’ wae
Through 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’ blew
Awa’ like feethers.
The thrawes o’ fear on a’ were shed,
An’ the hair rose, an’ slumber fled,
An’ lichts were lit an’ prayers were said
Through a’ the kintry;
An’ the cauld terror clum in bed
Wi’ a’ an’ sindry.
To hear in the pit-mirk on hie
The brangled collieshangie flie,
The warl’, they thocht, wi’ land an’ sea,
Itsel’ wad cowpit;
An’ for auld airn, the smashed débris
By 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 span
As 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 race
O’ 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’ die
In unco places.
“Whaur’s God?” I cry, an’ “Whae is me
To 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 beside
The herd that on the hills o’ sheep
Has 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’ rains
An’ 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’ drink
An’ waste o’ crumb,
I’ll mebbe have to thole wi’ skink
In Kingdom Come.
For God whan jowes the Judgment bell
Wi’ His ain Hand, His Leevin’ Sel’,
Sall ryve th
e 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’ grey,
Up wi’ your aixe!
An’ let the puir enjoy their play —
I’ll thole my paiks.
XIV
MY CONSCIENCE!
Of a’ 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 canna 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 lane
I creep apairt,
My conscience! hoo the yammerin’ pain
Stends to my heart!
A’ day wi’ various ends in view,
The 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’ knife
Ground 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,
Misca’ the great,
My conscience! an’ to raise a steer
Whan 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’ grinned
At the disaster;
An’ the morn’s mornin’, wud’s the wind,
Yokes on his master.
XV
TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN
Whan the dear doctor, dear to a’,
Was still among us here belaw,
I set my pipes his praise to blaw
Wi’ a’ my speerit;
But noo, dear doctor! he’s awa’
An’ ne’er can hear it.
By Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees,
By a’ the various river Dee’s,
In Mars and Manors ‘yont the seas
Or here at hame,
Whaure’er there’s kindly folk to please,
They ken your name.
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) Page 386