LITMIR.BIZ

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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 bonnie face,

      But yet I canna name ye.”

      Quo’ she, an’ laughin’ as she spak,

      An’ taks me by the hands,

      “Ye, for my sake, hae gi’en the feck,

      Of a’ the ten commands

      A screed some day.

      “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 to side,

      Wi’ monie a wearie body,

      In droves that day.

      Here farmers gash, in ridin’ graith

      Gaed hoddin by their cottars;

      There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith,

      Are springin’ o’er 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 carrying dails, some chairs an’ stools,

      An’ some are busy blethrin’

      Right loud that day.

      Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs,

      An’ screen our countra gentry,

      There, racer Jess, and twa-three wh-res,

      Are blinkin’ at the entry.

      Here sits a raw of titlin’ jades,

      Wi’ heaving breast and bare neck,

      An’ there’s 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,

      Unkenn’d that day.

      Now a’ the congregation o’er

      Is silent expectation;

      For Moodie speeds 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’ ratlin’ an’ wi’ thumpin’!

      Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,

      He’s stampin an’ he’s jumpin’!

      His lengthen’d chin, his turn’d-up snout,

      His eldritch squeel and gestures,

      Oh, 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 and reason?

      His English style, an’ gestures 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,[12]

      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, cannily he hums them;

      Altho’ his carnal wit an’ sense

      Like hafflins-ways o’ercomes him

      At

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