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THE DOMINIE.
I
Auld Arch'bald Lory in our clachan won,As Dominie, and eke as Session Clerk;
And had instructed many a sire and son
To read and write, and sclate 'rithmetic wark.
Him, many thought, who were na in the dark,
That he could tell by mathematic skill,
A cloaking yearoc frae the songful lark,
That gladdens morning with her lilt and trill,
And hails the coming day, while yet behind the hill.
II
But he was aged, and for long had beenHimself a scholar to schoolmaster Time;
And though sequester'd, pensive, and serene,
He redde the book that's neither prose nor rhyme—
The heart of man, so kittle, yet so prime.
And in the frolics of the village fair
Could tell the sports that anger spic'd with crime,
And if the pawkie boy that ettled there
Would bravely fortune speel, or dowie sink with care.
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III
In sprightly youth, when vernal hopes are gayAs the bright garland of the cherry tree;—
At college tasks, of poesy and lay—
Ah, few were there, I ween, of his degree.
But yet it chanc'd, with spirit proud and free,
He soon discern'd, though lone, and basely born,
He had no heart to curry pedigree;
And ere a minister, he came forlorn
To wash our Ethiops white, mayhap his doom to mourn.
IV
Then, in the Manse, there liv'd a Christian man—Our parents' Pastor, all to good inclin'd,
And friendless Bauldy told to him his plan,
To live unknown, and die when Heav'n was kind.
Right glad to hear a youth so brave, resign'd
To thole the midges of a clachan school;
He soon, for heritors are deaf and blind,
Got him install'd, the playrife swarm to rule;
The ladies saw, and thought that Bauldy was a fool.
V
At last the hoary and meek-hearted saint,Hoar as the mountain of the winter's morn
To Heav'n arose, and after much complaint,
By which the parish was perplex'd and torn;—
A Rev'rend Doctor, firmly nerv'd to scorn
The humble poor that have but souls to lose;
And at the patron's table lov'd to sorn,
Thinking that kirks were couches for repose,
Unlike the gentle saint, to sack the stipend knows.
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VI
His nose was red, and plooky was his face,A roguish twinkle schimmer'd in his eye,
And ne'er was dinner spoil'd by tedious grace,
When our good minister was standing by.
At table thirsty, and in pulpit dry,
He stirr'd the toddy with a ready hand;
“Now it is brew'd,” he said, “come taste and try,”
And all the glasses of the boozing band
Soon round the toddy bowl, wide-mouth'd expectants stand.
VII
One day it chanc'd, as on his parlour hearth,With knees unbutton'd and with bauchled feet,
He musing chuckled o'er remember'd mirth.
A young parishioner did him thus greet:—
“Good, godly Sir, I would you fain entreat
“To counsel in a straight, for oh, I'm fear't;
“Grim Elspeth Gray, a carlin skill'd in freats,
“To delve a day for her, my help has spear't—
“If I refuse, oh! Sir,—her scaithy e'en are bleart.”
VIII
“Away, you fool,” the jeering Doctor cried,“Nor fash me thus, you adle-pated loon,
“I must my sermon study, and then ride
“To meet his Lordship in the afternoon;
“For he, to dinner, says, come always soon.
“Away, away, you eerie cuif, away,
“And to some other pipe your senseless tune;—
“Man! are ye fear't for doited Elspeth Gray?
“She's feckless and she's frail; she'll soon be row'n in clay.”
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IX
The fearful rustic shuffled to the door,And on the green stood pond'ring for awhile
What he should do; for ay his back was sore
Whene'er a neighbour wanted cosnent toil;
At last his visage brighten'd into smile.
He thought the Dominie might surely know
Some canny way, the witching wife to wile,
If she o'er him her cantrips dar'd to throw,
And dule fling in his lot, and ravel care with woe.
X
He Arch'bald sought for, in the wood and moorLong time he wander'd eerie up and down,
And heard the ravens in their haunted bower
Disastrous bodings croak; he saw the frown
Of dismal portents, lurid and unknown,
Low'r in the aspect of the ominous sky;
And mark'd an howlet, strangely, all alone,
In sullen awe, to yon old castle fly:—
But coming from afar, the Dominie drew nigh.
XI
To him he told of Elspeth's dread request,And how his back was skew'r'd with many a pain—
Softly entreating for his council best,
How he unscaith'd might from her charms remain.
The thoughtful Dominie, in pleasant vein,
Rebuk'd his terrors, call'd him lazy drone;
But all he said could not the clown restrain
In his alarm, from making meikle moan,
As aft he press'd his back, and gave a dreadful groan.
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XII
“Man,” quo' the Dominie, “be more a lad,“Nor the old woman thus so shrink to aid,
“For she's a widow, weanless, poor and sad,
“And ill can delve herself or lift a spade;
“Besides, you know, 'tis in the Scriptures said,
“That Christian men should help the needful, so
“Come, do your duty, and be none afraid,
“For duty done, rewards with grateful glow,
“The heart that gives relief, which all require below.”
XIII
“No doubt, good Sir, it is a pleasant thing,”Reluctant, Jamie, valiantly replied,
“To help the canny, with a turn in spring,—
“It is a truth which cannot be denied.
“But oh the Scriptures, Sir, are sair belied,
“If in them all there be a text that says
“A witch that's guilty, though she ne'er was tried,
“Has any portion in our labour days;—
“The Lord of power is just in all his righteous ways.”
XIV
Awhile the Dominie dejected mus'd—Pond'ring the drift of Jamie's pious tale,
And solemn said, as if he had perus'd
The inmost heart, “It is of no avail;
“Just Heav'n permits her, though she's old and frail,
“For some great purpose still on earth to be;
“And, if a witch, I redde you.—Wherefore pale
“Do you so grow?—Be counsell'd, lad, by me,
“And delve her ground an 'twere to jook her glamorie.”
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XV
“And so I will,” cried Jamie, with a shout,“Ill deedy folks by courtesy are won;”
And, clownlike, gladly turning quick about,
For Elspeth delves, as he had been her son.
Soon far and wide the Christian's tidings run,
How he, a scamp, but scant of grace, appear'd,
With hearty earnestness till all was done,
In her kail-yard, and gausy bowstocks rear'd.
The Rev'rend Doctor said, “He was to all endear'd.”
XVI
But thought the kane to labouring Jamie sentMight just as well been ported to the manse,
And often hinted, he would be content
To see such ducks their pawkie een up glance,
Tied by the legs, and fated in his trance—
The gifts of many a gospel-hearted dame;
While aft with glee did havrel Jamie dance,
To earn such wage withouten fear or shame;
Nor did the Dominie e'er mint he was to blame.
XVII
But once it chanc'd, the day before the Fair,That Jamie promis'd Elspeth Gray to howk
Her trig how'd 'tatoes, but one Pidcock, rare,
Came with a show, and he forgot, the Gowk!
And went to see, with weans and other folk,
The caravan, that was like Noah's Ark,
With birds and beasts, besides a clown to joke;
So, playing truant from the promis'd wark,
Thought not of Elspeth Gray till it had long been dark.
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XVIII
The feckless carlin, like the old and frail,Was sometimes fashious, and would cank'ry fret;
So, in the night, she, flyting, wud, and pale,
Said, trembling, Jamie was “a cursed get,
“Whose glaiking soon the Ill would mak' a debt.”
He heard her well, and, fearful, quaking sore,
Beneath the blankets hid his head, and sweat
Till near on midnight, when a dread uproar
Rous'd all the shrieking town, and call'd him to the door.
XIX
There, lo! he saw by glimpse of lunar sheen,Havoc and scattering, and the caravan
Lie overthrown upon the village green,
And flying from it, woman, dog, and man,
To see the wherefore Jamie dreadless ran.
But ere he reach'd it, or had time to pray
The Ill or worse, with grumble, growl and ban,
Said, “Come you must, and moil for Elspeth Gray,”
And chirted him with hugs; his wits they fled away.
XX
The Rev'rend Doctor, when he heard th' event,And that poor Jamie only breath'd alive,
Hale-hearted said, “'Twas but an accident,
“And from the fright the lad would soon revive.”
But the calm Dominie said, “Men should strive
“To sweeten life with interchanges sweet
“Of Christian charity, that all may thrive:
“For had not Jamie stray'd with erring feet,
“His toil had made him sleep, unharm'd by Elspeth's threat.”
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XXI
Thus ever did that lonely thoughtful manMake nought but good from every sort of ill:
For ay with him it was the constant plan
From all mishaps some blessing to distill,
And wondrous wise, it was his custom still
To bid us take, and ever thankful be,
What we could get, for it is wisdom's skill
To use the means that Heaven has given free,
Whether they work by grief, by stratagem, or glee.
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