Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert BurnsЧитать онлайн книгу.

       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 plaisters

       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^4 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 powers 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,^5 frae the water-fit,

       Ascends the holy rostrum:

       [Footnote 4: Rev. George Smith of Galston.]

       [Footnote 5: Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-upon-Ayr.]

       See, up he's got, the word o' God,

       An' meek an' mim has view'd it,

       While Common-sense has taen the road,

       An' aff, an' up the Cowgate^6

       Fast, fast that day.

       Wee Miller^7 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 cryin out for bakes and 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 gies us mair

       Than either school or college;

       It kindles wit, it waukens lear,

       It pangs us fou o' knowledge:

       Be't whisky-gill or penny wheep,

       Or ony stronger potion,

       It never fails, or 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:

       [Footnote 6: A street so called which faces the tent in

       Mauchline.—R. B.]

       [Footnote 7: Rev. Alex. Miller, afterward of Kilmaurs.]

       On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk,

       They're makin observations;

       While some are cozie i' the neuk,

       An' forming assignations

       To meet some day.

       But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,

       Till a' the hills are rairin,

       And echoes back return the shouts;

       Black Russell is na sparin:

       His piercin 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,

       Whase raging flame, an' scorching 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 neibor snorin

       Asleep that day.

       'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,

       How mony stories past;

       An' how they crouded 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 gawsie, 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' gies 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' rattlin 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 mony hearts this day converts

       O' sinners and o' lasses!

       Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane

       As saft