shine,
Of moral pow’rs an’ reason;
His English style, an’ gesture fine
130 Are a’ clean out o’ season.
Like SOCRATES or ANTONINE,
Or some auld pagan heathen, old
The moral man he does define,
But ne’er a word o’ faith in
135 That’s right that day.
In guid time comes an antidote good
Against sic poison’d nostrum; such, preaching
For Peebles, frae the water-fit, from, mouth of the river
Ascends the holy rostrum:
140 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 Cowgate1
Fast, fast that day.
145 Wee Miller niest, the Guard relieves, next
An’ Orthodoxy raibles, recites by rote
Tho’ in his heart he weel believes, well
An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables: old
But faith! the birkie wants a Manse: fellow
150 So, cannilie he hums them; carefully he humbugs
Altho’ his carnal Wit an’ Sense
Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes him almost half-wise
At times that day.
Now butt an’ ben the Change-house fills, every corner of the Ale House
155 Wi’ yill-caup Commentators: ale cup
Here’s crying out for bakes an’ gills, biscuits
An’ there the pint-stowp clatters; pint-jug slams
While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang, crowded, long
Wi’ Logic an’ wi’ Scripture,
160 They raise a din, that, in the end noise
Is like to breed a rupture
O’ wrath that day.
Leeze me on Drink! it gies us mair my blessings, gives, more
Than either School or Colledge;
165 It kindles Wit, it waukens Lear, wakens learning
It pangs us fou o’ Knowledge: crams, full
Be’t whisky-gill or penny wheep, small beer costing a penny
Or onie stronger potion, any
It never fails, on drinkin deep,
170 To kittle up our notion, enliven spirits
By night or day.
The lads an’ lasses, blythely bent
To mind baith saul an’ body, both soul
Sit round the table, weel content, well
175 An’ steer about the Toddy: stir
On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk, one’s, look
They’re makin observations;
While some are cozie i’ the neuk, cosy, corner
An’ formin assignations
180 To meet some day.
But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts, own, sounds
Till a’ the hills are rairan, roaring back the echo
And echoes back return the shouts;
Black Russell is na spairan: not sparing
185 His piercin words, like Highlan’ swords,
Divide the joints an’ marrow;
His talk o’ Hell, whare devils dwell, where
Our vera ‘Sauls does harrow’2 very souls
Wi’ fright that day.
190 A vast, unbottom’d, boundless Pit,
Fill’d fou o’ lowan brunstane, full, flaming brimstone
Whase ragin flame, an’ scorchin heat, whose
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane! would, whinstone
The half-asleep start up wi’ fear,
195 An’ think they hear it roaran; roaring
When presently it does appear,
’Twas but some neebor snoran neighbour, snoring
Asleep that day.
’Twad be owre lang a tale to tell, over long
200 How monie stories past; many
An’ how they crouded to the yill, crowded, ale
When they were a’ dismist;
How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups, went, wooden jugs, cups
Amang the furms an’ benches; among, a row of seats
205 An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps, from
Was dealt about in lunches,
An’ dawds that day. large pieces
In comes a gausie, gash Guidwife, jolly, smart, good-
An’ sits down by the fire,
210 Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife; then, cheese
The lasses they are shyer:
The auld Guidmen, about the
