A robe of seeming truth and trust Hid crafty observation: And secret hung, with poison'd crust, The dirk of Defamation: A mask that like the gorget show'd, Dye-varying on the pigeon; And for a mantle large and broad, He wrapt him in Religion. Hypocrisy à-la-mode.
Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, An' snuff the caller air. The risin' sun, owre Galston muirs, Wi' glorious light was glintin; The hares were hirplin down the furrs, The lav'rocks they were chantin' Fu' sweet that day.
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 manteels o' dolefu' black, But ane wi' lyart lining: The third, that gaed a wee a-back, Was in the fashion shinin 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 ony slaes: The third cam up, hap-step-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 gi'en the feck Of a' the ten comman's A screed some day.
"I walked forth to view the corn, An' snuff the caller air."—Page 14.
'My name is Fun—your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae; An' this is Superstition 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, 'With 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 by side, Wi' monie a wearie bodie, In droves that day.
Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith Gaed hoddin by their cotters; There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, Are springin owre the gutters. The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, In silks an' scarlets glitter; Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie 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 carryin 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, an' twa-three whores, Are blinkin at the entry. Here sits a raw o' tittlin jades, 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' 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 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 points o' faith Wi' rattlin an' 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 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 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, 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 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'ercomes him At times that day.
Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, Wi' yill-caup Commentators: Here's crying out for bakes an' 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 gi'es 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 ony stronger potion, It never fails, on 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' 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 Russel is na spairin: His piercing 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, Wha's ragin flame, an' scorchin 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 neebor 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 and 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 bonie lads ye wanted, An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, Let lasses be affronted On sic a day!
Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattling tow, Begins to jow and 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 mome 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.
