The Complete Works of Robert Burns: Containing his Poems, Songs, and Correspondence. Allan Cunningham

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 making 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 Russell is na’ sparin’:

       His piercing words, like Highlan’ swords,

       Divide the joints and marrow;

       His talk o’ Hell, where devils dwell,

Our vera sauls does harrow[13] 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 whunstane!

       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 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 an’ 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 bonnie lads ye wanted,

       An’ dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,

       Let lasses be affronted

       On sic a day!

      Now Clinkumbell, wi’ ratlin 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 monie 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.

      FOOTNOTES:

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      [12] A street so called, which faces the tent in Mauchline.

      [13] Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

XXI.

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THE ORDINATION.

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      “For sense they little owe to frugal heav’n—

       To please the mob they hide the little giv’n.”

      [This sarcastic sally was written on the admission of Mr. Mackinlay, as one of the ministers to the Laigh, or parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of April, 1786. That reverend person was an Auld Light professor, and his ordination incensed all the New Lights, hence the bitter levity of the poem. These dissensions have long since past away: Mackinlay, a pious and kind-hearted sincere man, lived down all the personalities of the satire, and though unwelcome at first, he soon learned to regard them only as a proof of the powers of the poet.]