A Lowden Sabbath Morn. Robert Louis Stevenson

      The clinkum-clank o' Sabbath

      bells

      Noo to the hoastin' rookery

      swells,

      Noo faintin' laigh in shady dells,

      Sounds far an' near,

      An' through the simmer kintry

      tells Its tale o' cheer.

      An' noo, to that melodious play,

      A' deidly awn the quiet sway —

      A' ken their solemn holiday,

      Bestial an' human,

      The singin' lintie on the brae,

      The restin' plou'man.

      He, mair than a' the lave o' men,

      His week completit joys to ken;

      Half-dressed, he daunders out an'

      in,

      Perplext wi' leisure;

      An' his raxt limbs he'll rax again

      Wi' painfü' pleesure.

      The steerin' mither strang afit

      Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit;

      Noo cries them ben, their Sinday

      shüit

      To scart upon them,

      Or sweeties in their pouch to pit,

      Wi' blessin's on them.

      The lasses, clean frae tap to taes,

      Are busked in crunklin'

      underclaes;

      The gartened hose, the weel-filled

      stays,

      The nakit shift,

      A' bleached on bonny greens

      for

      days

      An' white's the drift.

      An' noo to face the kirkward mile:

      The guidman's hat o' dacent style,

      The blackit shoon, we noo maun

      fyle

      As white's the miller:

      A waefü' peety tae, to spile

      The warth o' siller.

      Our Marg'et, aye sae keen to

      crack,

      Douce-stappin' in the stoury

      track,

      Her emeralt goun a' kiltit back

      Frae snawy coats,

      White-ankled, leads the kirkward

      pack

      Wi' Dauvit Groats.

      A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks,