Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
68 . The Holy Fair
U
When Nature’s face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
An’ snuff the caller air.
The rising sun owre Galston muirs
Wi’ glorious light was glintin;
The hares were hirplin down the furrs,
The lav’rocks they were chantin
Fu’ sweet that day.
To see a scene sae gay, Three hizzies, early at the road, Cam skelpin up the way. Twa had manteeles o” dolefu’ black, But ane wi’ lyart lining; The third, that gaed a wee a-back, Was in the fashion shining Fu’ gay that day. In feature, form, an’ claes; Their visage wither’d, lang an’ thin, An’ sour as only slaes: The third cam up, hap-stap-an’-lowp, As light as ony lambie, An’ wi’a curchie low did stoop, As soon as e’er she saw me, Fu’ kind that day. I think ye seem to ken me; I’m sure I’ve seen that bonie face But yet I canna name ye.” An’ taks me by the han’s, “Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck Of a’ the ten comman’s A screed some day.” The nearest friend ye hae; An’ this is Superstitution 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.” 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’ mony a weary body In droves that day. Gaed hoddin by their cotters; There swankies young, in braw braid-claith, Are springing owre the gutters. The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, In silks an’ scarlets glitter; Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang, An’ farls, bak’d wi’ butter, Fu’ crump that day. Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence, A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws, An’ we maun draw our tippence. On ev’ry side they’re gath’rin; Some carrying dails, some chairs an’ stools, An’ some are busy bleth’rin Right loud that day. An’ screen our countra gentry; There “Racer Jess, an’ twa-three whores, Are blinkin at the entry. Here sits a raw o’ tittlin jads, Wi’ heaving breast an’ bare neck; An’ there a batch o’ wabster lads, Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock, For fun this day. 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’ screwed-up, grace-proud faces; On that a set o’ chaps, at watch, Thrang winkin on the lasses To chairs that day. Nae wonder that it pride him! Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, Comes clinkin down beside him! Wi’ arms repos’d on the chair back, He sweetly does compose him; Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An’s loof upon her bosom, Unkend that day. Is silent expectation; For Moodie speels the holy door, Wi’ tidings o’ damnation: ’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. Wi’ rattlin and wi’ thumpin! 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! 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. 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. Against sic poison’d nostrum; For Peebles, frae the water-fit, Ascends the holy rostrum: An’ meek an’ mim has view’d it, While Common-sense has taen the road, An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate Fast, fast that day. 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. 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. 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. To mind baith saul an’ body, Sit round the table, weel content, An’ steer about the toddy: They’re makin observations; While some are cozie i’ the neuk, An’ forming assignations To meet some day. 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! 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. 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. An’ sits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife; The lasses they are shyer: Frae side to side they bother; Till some ane by his bonnet lays, An’ gies them’t like a tether, Fu’ lang that day. 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! 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. 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’ mony jobs that day begin, May end in houghmagandie Some ither day.