Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (500 page)

Or hear the powrin’ burnie drum

In the shilfa’s pool.

The evil wi’ the guid they tak’;

They ca’ a grey thing grey, no’ black;

To a steigh brae a stubborn back

Addressin’ daily;

An’ up the rude, unbieldy track

O’ life, gang gaily.

What you would like’s a palace ha’,

Or Sinday parlour dink an’ braw

Wi’ a’ things ordered in a raw

By denty leddies.

Weel, then, ye canna hae’t: that’s a’

That to be said is.

An’ since at life ye’ve ta’en the grue,

An’ winna blithely hirsle through,

Ye’ve fund the very thing to do —

That’s to drink speerit;

An’ shüne we’ll hear the last o’ you —

An’ blithe to hear it!

The shoon ye coft, the life ye lead,

Ithers will heir when aince ye’re deid;

They’ll heir your tasteless bite o’ breid,

An’ find it sappy;

They’ll to your dulefü’ house succeed,

An’ there be happy.

As whan a glum an’ fractious wean

Has sat an’ sullened by his lane

Till, wi’ a rowstin’ skelp, he’s ta’en

An’ shoo’d to bed —  —

The ither bairns a’ fa’ to play’n’,

As gleg’s a gled.

IX

THE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL

It’s strange that God should fash to frame

The yearth and lift sae hie,

An’ clean forget to explain the same

To a gentleman like me.

Thae gusty, donnered ither folk,

Their weird they weel may dree;

But why present a pig in a poke

To a gentleman like me?

Thae ither folk their parritch eat

An’ sup their sugared tea;

But the mind is no’ to be wyled wi’ meat

Wi’ a gentleman like me.

Thae ither folk, they court their joes

At gloamin’ on the lea;

But they’re made of a commoner clay, I suppose,

Than a gentleman like me.

Thae ither folk, for richt or wrang,

They suffer, bleed, or dee;

But a’ thir things are an emp’y sang

To a gentleman like me.

It’s a different thing that I demand,

Tho’ humble as can be —

A statement fair in my Maker’s hand

To a gentleman like me:

A clear account writ fair an’ broad,

An’ a plain apologie;

Or the deevil a ceevil word to God

From a gentleman like me.

X

THEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY CLASS

DINNER CLUB

Dear Thamson class, whaure’er I gang

It aye comes ower me wi’ a spang:

“Lordsake! thae Thamson lads — (deil hang

Or else Lord mend them!) —

An’ that wanchancy annual sang

I ne’er can send them!”

Straucht, at the name, a trusty tyke,

My conscience girrs ahint the dyke;

Straucht on my hinderlands I fyke

To find a rhyme t’ ye;

Pleased — although mebbe no’ pleased-like —

To gie my time t’ ye.

“
Weel
,” an’ says you, wi’ heavin’ breist,

“Sae far, sae guid, but what’s the neist?

Yearly we gather to the feast,

A’ hopefü’ men —

Yearly we skelloch ‘Hang the beast —

Nae sang again!’”

My lads, an’ what am I to say?

Ye shürely ken the Muse’s way:

Yestreen, as gleg’s a tyke — the day,

Thrawn like a cuddy:

Her conduc’, that to her’s a play,

Deith to a body.

Aft whan I sat an’ made my mane,

Aft whan I laboured burd-alane

Fishin’ for rhymes an’ findin’ nane,

Or nane were fit for ye —

Ye judged me cauld’s a chucky-stane —

No car’n’ a bit for ye!

But saw ye ne’er some pingein’ bairn

As weak as a pitaty-par’n’ —

Less üsed wi’ guidin’ horse-shoe aim

Than steerin’ crowdie —

Packed aff his lane, by moss an’ cairn,

To ca’ the howdie.

Wae’s me, for the puir callant than!

He wambles like a poke o’ bran,

An’ the lowse rein, as hard’s he can,

Pu’s, trem’lin’ handit;

Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan’

Behauld him landit.

Sic-like — I awn the weary fac’ —

Whan on my muse the gate I tak’,

An’ see her gleed e’e raxin’ back

To keek ahint her; —

To me, the brig o’ Heev’n gangs black

As blackest winter.

“Lordsake! we’re aff,”
thinks I,
“but whaur?

On what abhorred an’ whinny scaur,

Or whammled in what sea o’ glaur,

Will she desert me?

An’ will she just disgrace? or waur —

Will she no’ hurt me?”

Kittle the quære! But at least

The day I’ve backed the fashious beast,

While she, wi’ mony a spang an’ reist,

Flang heels ower bonnet;

An’ a’ triumphant — for your feast,

Hae! there’s your sonnet!

XI

EMBRO HIE KIRK

The Lord Himsel’ in former days

Waled out the proper tunes for praise

An’ named the proper kind o’ claes

For folk to preach in:

Preceese and in the chief o’ ways

Important teachin’.

He ordered a’ things late and air’;

He ordered folk to stand at prayer

(Although I canna just mind where

He gave the warnin’),

An’ pit pomatum on their hair

On Sabbath mornin’.

The hale o’ life by His commands

Was ordered to a body’s hands;

But see! this
corpus juris
stands

By a’ forgotten;

An’ God’s religion in a’ lands

Is deid an’ rotten.

While thus the lave o’ mankind’s lost,

O’ Scotland still God maks His boast —

Puir Scotland, on whase barren coast

A score or twa

Auld wives wi’ mutches an’ a hoast

Still keep His law.

In Scotland, a wheen canty, plain,

Douce, kintry-leevin’ folk retain

The Truth — or did so aince — alane

Of a’ men leevin’;

An’ noo just twa o’ them remain —

Just Begg an’ Niven.

For noo, unfaithfü’ to the Lord,

Auld Scotland joins the rebel horde;

Her human hymn-books on the board

She noo displays:

An’ Embro Hie Kirk’s been restored

In popish ways.

O
punctum temporis
for action

To a’ o’ the reformin’ faction,

If yet, by ony act or paction,

Thocht, word, or sermon,

This dark an’ damnable transaction

Micht yet determine!

For see — as Doctor Begg explains —

Hoo easy ‘t’s düne! a pickle weans,

Wha in the Hie Street gaither stanes

By his instruction,

The uncovenantit, pentit panes

Ding to destruction.

Up, Niven, or ower late — an’ dash

Laigh in the glaur that carnal hash;

Let spires and pews wi’ gran’ stramash

Thegither fa’;

The rumlin’ kist o’ whustles smash

In pieces sma’.

Noo choose ye out a walie hammer;

About the knottit buttress clam’er;

Alang the steep roof stoyt an’ stammer,

A gate mischancy;

On the aul’ spire, the bells’ hie cha’mer,

Dance your bit dancie.

Ding, devel, dunt, destroy, an’ ruin,

Wi’ carnal stanes the square bestrewn’,

Till your loud chaps frae Kyle to Fruin,

Frae Hell to Heeven,

Tell the guid wark that baith are doin’ —

Baith Begg an’ Niven.

XII

THE SCOTSMAN’S RETURN FROM ABROAD

IN A LETTER FROM MR. THOMSON TO MR. JOHNSTONE

In mony a foreign pairt I’ve been,

An’ mony an unco ferlie seen,

Since, Mr. Johnstone, you and I,

Last walkit upon Cocklerye.

Wi’ gleg, observant een, I pass’t

By sea an’ land, through East an’ Wast,

And still in ilka age an’ station

Saw naething but abomination.

In thir uncovenantit lands

The gangrel Scot uplifts his hands

At lack of a’ sectarian füsh’n,

An’ cauld religious destitütion.

He rins, puir man, frae place to place,

Tries a’ their graceless means o’ grace,

Preacher on preacher, kirk on kirk —

This yin a stot an’ thon a stirk —

A bletherin’ clan, no warth a preen.

As bad as Smith of Aiberdeen!

At last, across the weary faem,

Frae far, outlandish pairts I came.

On ilka side o’ me I fand

Fresh tokens o’ my native land.

Wi’ whatna joy I hailed them a’ —

The hill-taps standin’ raw by raw,

The public-house, the Hielan’ birks,

And a’ the bonny U.P. kirks!

But maistly thee, the bluid o’ Scots,

Frae Maidenkirk to John o’ Groats!

The king o’ drinks, as I conceive it,

Talisker, Isla, or Glenlivet!

For after years wi’ a pockmantie

Frae Zanzibar to Alicante,

In mony a fash and sair affliction

I gie’t as my sincere conviction —

Of a’ their foreign tricks an’ pliskies,

I maist abominate their whiskies.

Nae doot, themsel’s, they ken it weel,

An’ wi’ a hash o’ leemon peel,

And ice an’ siccan filth, they ettle

The stawsome kind o’ goo to settle

Sic wersh apothecary’s broos wi’

As Scotsmen scorn to fyle their moo’s wi’.

An’, man, I was a blithe hame-comer

Whan first I syndit out my rummer.

Ye should hae seen me then, wi’ care

The less important pairts prepare;

Syne, weel contentit wi’ it a’,

Pour in the speerits wi’ a jaw!

I didna drink, I didna speak, —

I only snowkit up the reek.

I was sae pleased therein to paidle,

I sat an’ plowtered wi’ my ladle.

An’ blithe was I, the morrow’s morn,

To daunder through the stookit corn,

And after a’ my strange mishanters

Sit doun amang my ain dissenters

An’, man, it was a joy to me

The pu’pit an’ the pews to see,

The pennies dirlin’ in the plate,

The elders lookin’ on in state;

An’ ‘mang the first, as it befell,

Wha should I see, sir, but yoursel’!

I was, and I will no’ deny it,

At the first gliff a hantle tryit

To see yoursel’ in sic a station —

It seemed a doubtfü’ dispensation.

The feelin’ was a mere digression;

For shüne I understood the session,

An’ mindin’ Aiken an’ M’Neil,

I wondered they had düne sae weel.

I saw I had mysel’ to blame;

For had I but remained at hame,

Aiblins — though no ava’ deservin’ ‘t —

They micht hae named your humble servant.

The kirk was filled, the door was steiked;

Up to the pu’pit aince I keeked;

I was mair pleased than I can tell —

It was the minister himsel’!

Proud, proud was I to see his face,

After sae lang awa’ frae grace.

Pleased as I was, I’m no’ denyin’

Some maitters were not edifyin’;

For first I fand — an’ here was news! —

Mere hymn-books cockin’ in the pews —

A humanised abomination,

Unfit for ony congregation.

Syne, while I still was on the tenter,

I scunnered at the new prezentor;

I thocht him gesterin’ an’ cauld —

A sair declension frae the auld.

Syne, as though a’ the faith was wreckit,

The prayer was not what I’d exspeckit.

Himsel’, as it appeared to me,

Was no’ the man he üsed to be.

But just as I was growin’ vext

He waled a maist judeecious text,

An’, launchin’ into his prelections,

Swoopt, wi’ a skirl, on a’ defections.

O what a gale was on my speerit

To hear the p’ints o’ doctrine clearit,

And a’ the horrors o’ damnation

Set furth wi’ faithfü’ ministration!

Nae shauchlin’ testimony here —

We were a’ damned, an’ that was clear.

I owned, wi’ gratitude an’ wonder,

He was a pleesure to sit under.

XIII

Late in the nicht in bed I lay,

The winds were at their weary play,

An’ tirlin’ wa’s an’ skirlin’ wae

Through Heev’n they battered; —

On-ding o’ hail, on-blaff o’ spray,

The tempest blattered.

The masoned house it dinled through;

It dung the ship, it cowped the coo;

The rankit aiks it overthrew,

Had braved a’ weathers;

The strang sea-gleds it took an’ blew

Awa’ like feethers.

The thrawes o’ fear on a’ were shed,

An’ the hair rose, an’ slumber fled,

An’ lichts were lit an’ prayers were said

Through a’ the kintry;

An’ the cauld terror clum in bed

Wi’ a’ an’ sindry.

To hear in the pit-mirk on hie

The brangled collieshangie flie,

The warl’, they thocht, wi’ land an’ sea,

Itsel’ wad cowpit;

An’ for auld airn, the smashed débris

By God be rowpit.

Meanwhile frae far Aldeboran

To folks wi’ talescopes in han’,

O’ ships that cowpit, winds that ran,

Nae sign was seen,

But the wee warl’ in sunshine span

As bricht’s a preen.

I, tae, by God’s especial grace,

Dwall denty in a bieldy place,

Wi’ hosened feet, wi’ shaven face,

Wi’ dacent mainners:

A grand example to the race