The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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HAB'S DOOR,
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
HAB'S DOOR,
OR THE TEMPLE OF TERROR.
Oh a' ye Nine wha wing the lift,
Or trip Parnassus' green;
Or through droll bardies' noddles skift,
And mak' them bauld and bien;
Attend me while a scene I lift,
An awfu' waefu' screen;
That aft maist sent my saul adrift,
Out at my vera een.
On mony a day.
Or trip Parnassus' green;
Or through droll bardies' noddles skift,
And mak' them bauld and bien;
Attend me while a scene I lift,
An awfu' waefu' screen;
That aft maist sent my saul adrift,
Out at my vera een.
On mony a day.
Now draw the string—hail weel kent part,
Ye doors and firms—black gear;
But cease, thou flighterin' thuddin' heart,
Thou naething hast to fear;
The Muses deign thus low to dart,
To guard thy footsteps here;
Then cock thy bonnet brisk and smart,
The ferlies see and hear,
This waefu' day.
Ye doors and firms—black gear;
But cease, thou flighterin' thuddin' heart,
Thou naething hast to fear;
The Muses deign thus low to dart,
To guard thy footsteps here;
Then cock thy bonnet brisk and smart,
The ferlies see and hear,
This waefu' day.
67
See how they're scuddin' up the stair,
A' breathless, and a' pechin'—
“Wha cam' last?” “Me,” cries some ane there—
Still up their comin' stechin';
Some oxtering pocks o' silken ware,
Some lapfus hov't like kechan;
An' aft the sigh, and hum, and stare,
E'en frichtet like they're hechin',
Sad, sad, this day.
A' breathless, and a' pechin'—
“Wha cam' last?” “Me,” cries some ane there—
Still up their comin' stechin';
Some oxtering pocks o' silken ware,
Some lapfus hov't like kechan;
An' aft the sigh, and hum, and stare,
E'en frichtet like they're hechin',
Sad, sad, this day.
“Is this the dolefu' jougs, gudewife,
Or black stool o' repentance?
Or are ye try't 'tween death and life,
And waiting for your sentence?
Ye leuk to be a dismal corps
O' desolate acquaintance!”
“Whisht,” quo' the wife, “ye maunna roar,
Or lad ye'll soon be sent hence,
By Hab this day.”
Or black stool o' repentance?
Or are ye try't 'tween death and life,
And waiting for your sentence?
Ye leuk to be a dismal corps
O' desolate acquaintance!”
“Whisht,” quo' the wife, “ye maunna roar,
Or lad ye'll soon be sent hence,
By Hab this day.”
Now twiggle twiggle goes the door,
In steps the foremost comer;
Tak's aff his cowl, pu's out his store,
A' shakin', tells the num'er.
The ready scales, a clinkin' corps
O' weights, amaist a hun'er;
Lets Andrew ken what down to score,
Syne heaves it out like lum'er,
In's neive this day.
In steps the foremost comer;
Tak's aff his cowl, pu's out his store,
A' shakin', tells the num'er.
The ready scales, a clinkin' corps
O' weights, amaist a hun'er;
Lets Andrew ken what down to score,
Syne heaves it out like lum'er,
In's neive this day.
Now, now, you wretch, prepare, prepare,
And tak' a snuff to cheer ye;
See how he spreads your lizures bare—
Hech, but they're black and dreary.
“Lord, sirrah,” Hab roars like a bear,
“What stops me but I tear ye?
Such lizures!—damn your blood, ye stare—
By God, ye dog, I'll swear ye
To hell this day.”
And tak' a snuff to cheer ye;
See how he spreads your lizures bare—
Hech, but they're black and dreary.
68
“What stops me but I tear ye?
Such lizures!—damn your blood, ye stare—
By God, ye dog, I'll swear ye
To hell this day.”
The poor soul granes aneath the rod,
As burning in a fever,
His knees to ane anither nod,
And hand, and lip pale, quiver.
The tiger stamps, with fury shod,
“Confound your blasted liver,
Bring hame the beating, and by God
Ye may be damned for ever,
For ought I care.”
As burning in a fever,
His knees to ane anither nod,
And hand, and lip pale, quiver.
The tiger stamps, with fury shod,
“Confound your blasted liver,
Bring hame the beating, and by God
Ye may be damned for ever,
For ought I care.”
Now swelled to madness, round the room
Hab like a fury prances;
While each successive comer's doom
Is fixt to hell as chance is.
His agents a', wi' sullen gloom
Mute, measure, as he dances
With horrid rage, damning the loom,
And weavers; soon he scances
Their claith this day.
Hab like a fury prances;
While each successive comer's doom
Is fixt to hell as chance is.
His agents a', wi' sullen gloom
Mute, measure, as he dances
With horrid rage, damning the loom,
And weavers; soon he scances
Their claith this day.
His fate met out, awa' wi' speed
The plackless sinner trudges;
Glad to escape the killing dread
O' sic unfeeling judges.
His greetin' weans mourn out for bread,
The hopeless wife now grudges;
And ruin gathers round his head,
In many a shape that huge is,
And grim this day.
The plackless sinner trudges;
Glad to escape the killing dread
O' sic unfeeling judges.
His greetin' weans mourn out for bread,
The hopeless wife now grudges;
And ruin gathers round his head,
In many a shape that huge is,
And grim this day.
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And now, ye pridefu' wabster chiels,
How dare ye stand afore him,
And say he aften gi'es to deils,
Men that's by far before him;
Ye mock his skill o' claith and keels,
And frae douce christians score him,
But haith gin he kens this as weel,
To coin oaths I'se encore him
Aloud this day.
How dare ye stand afore him,
And say he aften gi'es to deils,
Men that's by far before him;
Ye mock his skill o' claith and keels,
And frae douce christians score him,
But haith gin he kens this as weel,
To coin oaths I'se encore him
Aloud this day.
Go on—great, glorious Hab, go on—
Rave owre the trembling wretches;
Mind neither music, sex, nor one,
But curse them a' for bitches;
While echo answers every groan,
That their deep murmur fetches;
Damn every poor man's worth, and moan,
For that exalts like riches,
Bright souls as thine.
Rave owre the trembling wretches;
Mind neither music, sex, nor one,
But curse them a' for bitches;
While echo answers every groan,
That their deep murmur fetches;
Damn every poor man's worth, and moan,
For that exalts like riches,
Bright souls as thine.
But when that serious day or night
That sure to come draws near;
When thy ain wab, a dismal sight,
Maun to be judged appear.
Ha, Hab! I doubt thy weight owre light,
Will gar thee girn and swear;
An' thou'lt gang down the brimstane height,
Weel guarded flank and rear,
To hell that day.
That sure to come draws near;
When thy ain wab, a dismal sight,
Maun to be judged appear.
Ha, Hab! I doubt thy weight owre light,
Will gar thee girn and swear;
An' thou'lt gang down the brimstane height,
Weel guarded flank and rear,
To hell that day.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |