Sabbath Morn

Robert Louis Stevenson

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  • A Lowden Sabbath Morn

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    ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
    Second proofing by Stephen Booth

    A Lowden Sabbath Morn




    I

    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.

    II

    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.

    III

    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' painfu' pleesure.

    IV

    The steerin' mither strang afit
    Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit;
    Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shuit
    To scart upon them,
    Or sweeties in their pouch to pit,
    Wi' blessin's on them.

    V

    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.

    VI

    An' noo to face the kirkward mile
    The guidman's hat o' dacent style,
    The blackit shoon, we noon maun fyle
    As white's the miller:
    A waefu' peety tae, to spile
    The warth o' siller.

    VII

    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.

    VIII

    A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks,
    A' spiled wi' lyin' by for weeks,
    The guidman follows closs, an' cleiks
    The sonsie misses;
    His sarious face at aince bespeaks
    The day that this is.

    IX

    And aye an' while we nearer draw
    To whaur the kirkton lies alaw,
    Mair neebours, comin' saft an' slaw
    Frae here an' there,
    The thicker thrang the gate, an' caw
    The stour in air.

    X

    But hark! the bells frae nearer clang
    To rowst the slaw, their sides they bang
    An' see! black coats a'ready thrang
    The green kirkyaird;
    And at the yett, the chestnuts spang
    That brocht the laird.

    XI

    The solemn elders at the plate
    Stand drinkin' deep the pride o' state:
    The practised hands as gash an' great
    As Lords o' Session;
    The later named, a wee thing blate
    In their expression.

    XII

    The prentit stanes that mark the deid,
    Wi' lengthened lip, the sarious read;
    Syne way a moraleesin' heid,
    An then an' there
    Their hirplin' practice an' their creed
    Try hard to square.

    XIII

    It's here our Merren lang has lain,
    A wee bewast the table-stane;
    An' yon's the grave o' Sandy Blane;
    An' further ower,
    The mither's brithers, dacent men!
    Lie a' the fower.

    XIV

    Here the guidman sall bide awee
    To dwall amang the deid; to see
    Auld faces clear in fancy's e'e;
    Belike to hear
    Auld voices fa'in saft an' slee
    On fancy's ear.

    XV

    Thus, on the day o' solemn things,
    The bell that in the steeple swings
    To fauld a scaittered faim'ly rings
    Its walcome screed;
    An' just a wee thing nearer brings
    The quick an' deid.

    XVI

    But noo the bell is ringin' in;
    To tak their places, folk begin;
    The minister himsel' will shune
    Be up the gate,
    Filled fu' wi' clavers about sin
    An' man's estate.

    XVII

    The tunes are up—FRENCH, to be shure,
    The faithfu' FRENCH, an' twa-three mair;
    The auld prezentor, hoastin' sair,
    Wales out the portions,
    An' yirks the tune into the air
    Wi' queer contortions.

    XVIII

    Follows the prayer, the readin' next,
    An' than the fisslin' for the text—
    The twa-three last to find it, vext
    But kind o' proud;
    An' than the peppermints are raxed,
    An' southernwood.

    XIX

    For noo's the time whan pows are seen
    Nid-noddin' like a mandareen;
    When tenty mithers stap a preen
    In sleepin' weans;
    An' nearly half the parochine
    Forget their pains.

    XX

    There's just a waukrif' twa or three:
    Thrawn commentautors sweer to `gree,
    Weans glowrin' at the bumlin' bee
    On windie-glasses,
    Or lads that tak a keek a-glee
    At sonsie lasses.

    XXI

    Himsel', meanwhile, frae whaur he cocks
    An' bobs belaw the soundin'-box,
    The treesures of his words unlocks
    Wi' prodigality,
    An' deals some unco dingin' knocks
    To infidality.

    XXII

    Wi' snappy unction, hoo he burkes
    The hopes o' men that trust in works,
    Expounds the fau'ts o' ither kirks,
    An' shaws the best o' them
    No muckle better than mere Turks,
    When a's confessed o' them.

    XXIII

    Bethankit! what a bonny creed!
    What mair would ony Christian need?—
    The braw words rumm'le ower his heid,
    Nor steer the sleeper;
    And in their restin' graves, the deid
    Sleep aye the deeper.


    AUTHOR'S NOTE

    It may be guessed by some that I had a certain parish in my eye, and this makes it proper I should add a word of disclamation. In my time there have been two ministers in that parish. Of the first I have a special reason to speak well, even had there been any to think ill. The second I have often met in private and long (in the due phrase) "sat under" in his church, and neither here nor there have I heard an unkind or ugly word upon his lips. The preacher of the text had thus no original in that particular parish; but when I was a boy he might have been observed in many others; he was then (like the schoolmaster) abroad; and by recent advices, it would seem he has not yet entirely disappeared.