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14
THE POEMS OF BURNS.
THE HOLY FAIR.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
