 | Scotch Words and the Bapteesement o' the Bairn |  |
5
Scotch Words.
They speak in riddles north beyond the Tweed.
The plain, pure English they can deftly read;
Yet when without the book they come to speak,
Their lingo seems half English and half Greek.
The plain, pure English they can deftly read;
Yet when without the book they come to speak,
Their lingo seems half English and half Greek.
Their jaws are chafts; their hands, when closed, are neives;
Their bread's not cut in slices, but in sheives;
Their armpits are their oxters; palms are luifs;
Their men are chields; their timid fools are cuiffs;
Their lads are callants, and their women kimmers;
Good lasses denty queens, and bad ones limmers.
They thole when they endure, scart when they scratch;
And when they give a sample it's a swatch.
Scolding is flytin', and a long palaver
Is nothing but a blether or a haver.
This room they call the butt, and that the ben;
And what they do not know they dinna ken.
On keen cold days they say the wind blaws snell.
And when they wipe their nose they dicht their byke;
And they have words that Johnson could not spell,
As umph'm, which means—anything you like:
While some, though purely English, and well known,
Have yet a Scottish meaning of their own:—
To prig's to plead, beat down a thing in cost;
To coff's to purchase, and a cough's a host;
To crack is to converse; the lift's the sky;
And bairns are said to greet when children cry.
When lost, folk never ask the way they want—
They spier the gate; and when they yawn they gaunt.
Beetle with them is clock; a flame's a lowe;
Their straw is strae; chaff cauff, and hollow howe;
A pickle means a few; muckle is big;
And a piece of crockeryware is called a pig.
Their bread's not cut in slices, but in sheives;
Their armpits are their oxters; palms are luifs;
Their men are chields; their timid fools are cuiffs;
Their lads are callants, and their women kimmers;
Good lasses denty queens, and bad ones limmers.
They thole when they endure, scart when they scratch;
And when they give a sample it's a swatch.
Scolding is flytin', and a long palaver
Is nothing but a blether or a haver.
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And what they do not know they dinna ken.
On keen cold days they say the wind blaws snell.
And when they wipe their nose they dicht their byke;
And they have words that Johnson could not spell,
As umph'm, which means—anything you like:
While some, though purely English, and well known,
Have yet a Scottish meaning of their own:—
To prig's to plead, beat down a thing in cost;
To coff's to purchase, and a cough's a host;
To crack is to converse; the lift's the sky;
And bairns are said to greet when children cry.
When lost, folk never ask the way they want—
They spier the gate; and when they yawn they gaunt.
Beetle with them is clock; a flame's a lowe;
Their straw is strae; chaff cauff, and hollow howe;
A pickle means a few; muckle is big;
And a piece of crockeryware is called a pig.
Speaking of pigs—when Lady Delacour
Was on her celebrated Scottish tour,
One night she made her quarters at the “Crown,”
The head inn of a well known county town.
The chambermaid, in lighting her to bed,
Before withdrawing, curtsied low, and said—
Was on her celebrated Scottish tour,
One night she made her quarters at the “Crown,”
The head inn of a well known county town.
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Before withdrawing, curtsied low, and said—
“This nicht is cauld, my leddy, wad ye please,
To hae a pig i' the bed to warm yer taes?”
To hae a pig i' the bed to warm yer taes?”
“A pig in the bed to tease! What's that you say?
You are impertinent—away, away!”
You are impertinent—away, away!”
“Me impident! no, mem—I meant nae harm,
But just the greybeard pig to keep ye warm.”
But just the greybeard pig to keep ye warm.”
“Insolent hussy, to confront me so!
This very instant shall your mistress know.
The bell—there's none, of course—go send her here.”
This very instant shall your mistress know.
The bell—there's none, of course—go send her here.”
“My mistress, mem, I dinna need to fear;
In sooth, it was hersel' that bade me spier.
Nae insult, mem; we thocht ye wad be gled,
On this cauld nicht, to hae a pig i' the bed.”
In sooth, it was hersel' that bade me spier.
Nae insult, mem; we thocht ye wad be gled,
On this cauld nicht, to hae a pig i' the bed.”
“Stay, girl; your words are strangely out of place,
And yet I see no insult in your face.
Is it a custom in your country, then,
For ladies to have pigs in bed wi' them?”
And yet I see no insult in your face.
Is it a custom in your country, then,
For ladies to have pigs in bed wi' them?”
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“Oh, quite a custom wi' the gentles, mem—
Wi' gentle ladies, ay, and gentle men;
And, troth, if single, they wad sairly miss
Their het pig on a cauldrif nicht like this.”
Wi' gentle ladies, ay, and gentle men;
And, troth, if single, they wad sairly miss
Their het pig on a cauldrif nicht like this.”
“I've seen strange countries—but this surely beats
Their rudest makeshifts for a warming-pan.
Suppose, my girl, I should adopt your plan,
You would not put the pig between the sheets?”
Their rudest makeshifts for a warming-pan.
Suppose, my girl, I should adopt your plan,
You would not put the pig between the sheets?”
“Surely, my leddy, and nae itherwhere:
Please, mem, ye'll find it do the maist guid there.”
Please, mem, ye'll find it do the maist guid there.”
“Fie, fie, 'twould dirty them, and if I keep
In fear of that, you know, I could not sleep.”
In fear of that, you know, I could not sleep.”
“Ye'll sleep far better, mem. Tak' my advice;
The nicht blaws snell—the sheets are cauld as ice;
I'll fetch ye up a fine, warm, cozy pig;
I'll mak' ye sae comfortable and trig,
Wi' coortains, blankets, every kind o' hap,
And warrant ye to sleep as soond's a tap.
As for the fylin' o' the sheets—dear me,
The pig's as clean outside as pig can be.
A weel-closed mooth's eneuch for ither folk,
But if ye like, I'll put it in a poke.”
The nicht blaws snell—the sheets are cauld as ice;
I'll fetch ye up a fine, warm, cozy pig;
I'll mak' ye sae comfortable and trig,
Wi' coortains, blankets, every kind o' hap,
And warrant ye to sleep as soond's a tap.
As for the fylin' o' the sheets—dear me,
The pig's as clean outside as pig can be.
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But if ye like, I'll put it in a poke.”
“But, Effie—that's your name, I think you said—
Do you yourself, now, take a pig to bed?”
Do you yourself, now, take a pig to bed?”
“Eh! na, mem, pigs are only for the great,
Wha lie on feather beds, and sit up late.
Feathers and pigs are no for puir riff-raff—
Me and my neiber lassie lies on cauff.”
Wha lie on feather beds, and sit up late.
Feathers and pigs are no for puir riff-raff—
Me and my neiber lassie lies on cauff.”
“What's that—a calf? If I your sense can gather,
You and the other lassie sleep together—
Two in a bed, and with the calf between:
That, I suppose, my girl, is what you mean?”
You and the other lassie sleep together—
Two in a bed, and with the calf between:
That, I suppose, my girl, is what you mean?”
“Na, na, my leddy—'od ye're jokin' noo—
We sleep thegither, that is very true—
But nocht between us: wi' oor claes all aff,
Except oor sarks, we lie upon the cauff.”
We sleep thegither, that is very true—
But nocht between us: wi' oor claes all aff,
Except oor sarks, we lie upon the cauff.”
“Well, well, my girl! I am surprised to hear
That we of English habits live so near
Such barbarous customs.—Effie, you may go:
As for the pig, I thank you, but—no, no—
Ha, ha! good night—excuse me if I laugh—
I'd rather be without both pig and calf.”
That we of English habits live so near
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As for the pig, I thank you, but—no, no—
Ha, ha! good night—excuse me if I laugh—
I'd rather be without both pig and calf.”
On the return of Lady Delacour,
She wrote a book about her northern tour,
Wherein the facts are graphically told,
That Scottish gentlefolks, when nights are cold,
Take into bed fat pigs to keep them warm;
While common folk, who share their beds in halves—
Denied the richer comforts of the farm—
Can only warm their sheets with lean, cheap calves.
She wrote a book about her northern tour,
Wherein the facts are graphically told,
That Scottish gentlefolks, when nights are cold,
Take into bed fat pigs to keep them warm;
While common folk, who share their beds in halves—
Denied the richer comforts of the farm—
Can only warm their sheets with lean, cheap calves.
11
The Bapteesement o' the Bairn.
Od, Andra, man! I doot ye may be wrang
To keep the bairn's bapteesement aff sae lang.
Supposin' the fivver, or some quick mischance,
Or even the kinkhost, whup it aff at once
To fire an brimstane, in the black domains
Of unbelievers and unchristen'd weans—
I'm sure ye never could forgie yersel',
Nor cock your head in Heaven, wi' it in—.
To keep the bairn's bapteesement aff sae lang.
Supposin' the fivver, or some quick mischance,
Or even the kinkhost, whup it aff at once
To fire an brimstane, in the black domains
Of unbelievers and unchristen'd weans—
I'm sure ye never could forgie yersel',
Nor cock your head in Heaven, wi' it in—.
Weesht, Meggie, weesht! name not the wicked place,
I ken I'm wrang, but Heaven will grant us grace.
I havena been unmindfu' o' the bairn,
Na, thocht on't till my bowels begin to yearn.
But, woman, to my sorrow, I have found
Our minister is anything but sound;
I'd sooner brak the half o' the commands
Than trust a bairn's bapteesement in his hands.
I wadna say our minister's depraved;
In fac', in all respects he's weel behaved:
He veesits the haill pairish, rich an' puir;
A worthier man, in warldly ways, I'm sure
We couldna hae; but, och! wae's me, wae's me!
In doctrine points his head is all agley.
Wi' him there's no Elect—all are the same;
An honest heart, an' conduct free frae blame,
He thinks mair likely, in the hour o' death,
To comfort ane than a' your bible faith:
And e'en the Atonement, woman, he lichtlies so,
It's doubtfu' whether he believes't or no!
Redemption, too, he almost sets aside,
He leaves us hopeless, wandering far an' wide,
And whether saved or damn'd we canna tell,
For every man must e'en redeem himsel'!
Then on the Resurrection he's clean wrang;
“Wherefore,” says he, “lie in your graves sae lang?
The speerit is the man, and it ascends
The very instant that your breathin' ends;
The body's buried, and will rise no more,
Though a' the horns in Heaven should rowt and roar.”
Sometimes he'll glint at Robbie Burns's deil,
As if he were a decent kind o' cheil;
But to the doonricht Satan o' the Word,
Wae's me! he disna pay the least regard.
An' Hell he treats sae brief an' counts sae sma',
That it amounts to nae sic place ava.
O dear, to think our prayers an' holy chaunts,
And a' the self-denyin's of us saunts,
Are not to be repaid by the delight
Of hearing from that region black as night
The yelling, gnashing, and despairing cry
Of wretches that in fire an' brimstane lie!
'Twill never do, guidwife, this daft divine
Shall ne'er lay hands on bairn o' yours an' mine.
I ken I'm wrang, but Heaven will grant us grace.
I havena been unmindfu' o' the bairn,
Na, thocht on't till my bowels begin to yearn.
But, woman, to my sorrow, I have found
Our minister is anything but sound;
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Than trust a bairn's bapteesement in his hands.
I wadna say our minister's depraved;
In fac', in all respects he's weel behaved:
He veesits the haill pairish, rich an' puir;
A worthier man, in warldly ways, I'm sure
We couldna hae; but, och! wae's me, wae's me!
In doctrine points his head is all agley.
Wi' him there's no Elect—all are the same;
An honest heart, an' conduct free frae blame,
He thinks mair likely, in the hour o' death,
To comfort ane than a' your bible faith:
And e'en the Atonement, woman, he lichtlies so,
It's doubtfu' whether he believes't or no!
Redemption, too, he almost sets aside,
He leaves us hopeless, wandering far an' wide,
And whether saved or damn'd we canna tell,
For every man must e'en redeem himsel'!
Then on the Resurrection he's clean wrang;
“Wherefore,” says he, “lie in your graves sae lang?
The speerit is the man, and it ascends
The very instant that your breathin' ends;
The body's buried, and will rise no more,
Though a' the horns in Heaven should rowt and roar.”
13
As if he were a decent kind o' cheil;
But to the doonricht Satan o' the Word,
Wae's me! he disna pay the least regard.
An' Hell he treats sae brief an' counts sae sma',
That it amounts to nae sic place ava.
O dear, to think our prayers an' holy chaunts,
And a' the self-denyin's of us saunts,
Are not to be repaid by the delight
Of hearing from that region black as night
The yelling, gnashing, and despairing cry
Of wretches that in fire an' brimstane lie!
'Twill never do, guidwife, this daft divine
Shall ne'er lay hands on bairn o' yours an' mine.
Ye're richt, guidman, rather than hands like his
Bapteese the bairn, we'll keep it as it is—
For aye an outlin' wi' its kith an' kin—
A hottentot, a heathen steep'd in sin!
Bapteese the bairn, we'll keep it as it is—
For aye an outlin' wi' its kith an' kin—
A hottentot, a heathen steep'd in sin!
Sin, did ye say, guidwife? ay, there again
Our minister's the erringest of men.
Original sin he almost lauchs to scorn,
An' says the purest thing's a babe new born,
Quite free from guile, corruption, guilt, and all
The curses of a veesionary fall—
Yes, “veesionary,” was his very word!
Bapteese our bairn! it's morally absurd!
Our minister's the erringest of men.
Original sin he almost lauchs to scorn,
An' says the purest thing's a babe new born,
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The curses of a veesionary fall—
Yes, “veesionary,” was his very word!
Bapteese our bairn! it's morally absurd!
Then, Andra, we'll just lat the baptism be,
And pray to Heaven the bairn may never dee.
If Providence, for ends known to itsel'
Has ower us placed this darken'd infidel,
Lat's trust that Providence will keep us richt,
And aiblins turn our present dark to licht.
And pray to Heaven the bairn may never dee.
If Providence, for ends known to itsel'
Has ower us placed this darken'd infidel,
Lat's trust that Providence will keep us richt,
And aiblins turn our present dark to licht.
Meggie, my woman, ye're baith richt and wrang:
Trust Providence, but dinna sit ower lang
In idle hope that Providence will bring
Licht to your feet, or ony ither thing.
The Lord helps them that strive as weel as trust,
While idle faith gets naething but a crust.
So says this heathen man—the only truth
We've ever gotten frae his graceless mooth.
Lat's use the means, and Heaven will bless the end;
And, Meggie, this is what I now intend—
That you and I, the morn's morn, go forth
Bearing the bairn along unto the north,
Like favoured ones of old, until we find
A man of upricht life, and godly mind,
Sound in the faith, matured in all his powers,
Fit to bapteese a weel-born bairn like ours.—
Noo then, the parritch—flesh maun e'en be fed—
An' I'll wale oot a chapter;—syne to bed.
Trust Providence, but dinna sit ower lang
In idle hope that Providence will bring
Licht to your feet, or ony ither thing.
The Lord helps them that strive as weel as trust,
While idle faith gets naething but a crust.
So says this heathen man—the only truth
We've ever gotten frae his graceless mooth.
Lat's use the means, and Heaven will bless the end;
And, Meggie, this is what I now intend—
That you and I, the morn's morn, go forth
Bearing the bairn along unto the north,
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A man of upricht life, and godly mind,
Sound in the faith, matured in all his powers,
Fit to bapteese a weel-born bairn like ours.—
Noo then, the parritch—flesh maun e'en be fed—
An' I'll wale oot a chapter;—syne to bed.
Eh, but the mornin's grand! that mottled gray
Is certain promise o' a famous day.
But Meggie, lass, you're gettin' tired, I doot;
Gie me the bairn; we'll tak it time aboot.
Is certain promise o' a famous day.
But Meggie, lass, you're gettin' tired, I doot;
Gie me the bairn; we'll tak it time aboot.
I'm no that tired, an' yet the road looks lang;
But Andra, man, whar do you mean to gang?
But Andra, man, whar do you mean to gang?
No very far; just north the road a wee,
To Leuchars manse; I'se warrant there we'll see
A very saunt—the Reverend Maister Whyte—
Most worthy to perform the sacred rite;
A man of holy zeal, sound as a bell,
In all things perfect as the Word itsel';
Strict in his goings out and comings in;
A man that knoweth not the taste of sin—
Except original. Yon's the manse. Wi' him
There's nae new readin's o' the text, nae whim
That veetiates the essentials of our creed,
But scriptural in thought, in word, and deed.—
Noo let's walk up demurely to the door,
And gie a modest knock—one knock, no more,
Or else they'll think we're gentles. Some ane's here.
Stand back a little, Meggie, and I'll spier
If Maister Whyte—Braw day, my lass! we came
To see if Mr. Whyte—
To Leuchars manse; I'se warrant there we'll see
A very saunt—the Reverend Maister Whyte—
Most worthy to perform the sacred rite;
A man of holy zeal, sound as a bell,
In all things perfect as the Word itsel';
Strict in his goings out and comings in;
A man that knoweth not the taste of sin—
Except original. Yon's the manse. Wi' him
16
That veetiates the essentials of our creed,
But scriptural in thought, in word, and deed.—
Noo let's walk up demurely to the door,
And gie a modest knock—one knock, no more,
Or else they'll think we're gentles. Some ane's here.
Stand back a little, Meggie, and I'll spier
If Maister Whyte—Braw day, my lass! we came
To see if Mr. Whyte—
He's no at hame!
But he'll be back sometime the nicht, belyve;
He startit aff, I rackon, aboot five
This mornin', to the fishin'—
But he'll be back sometime the nicht, belyve;
He startit aff, I rackon, aboot five
This mornin', to the fishin'—
Save us a!
We're ower lang here—come Meggie, come awa.
Let's shak the very dust frae aff our feet;
A fishin' minister! And so discreet
In all his ministrations! But he's young—
Maybe this shred of wickedness has clung
This lang aboot him, as a warnin' sign
That he should never touch your bairn and mine.—
We'll just haud north to Forgan manse, an' get
Auld Doctor Maule—in every way most fit—
To consecrate the wean. He's a Divine
Of auld experience, and stood high langsyne,
Ere we were born; in doctrine clear and sound,
He'll no be at the fishin' I'll be bound.
Wae's me, to think the pious Maister Whyte
In catchin' troots shud tak the least delight!
We're ower lang here—come Meggie, come awa.
Let's shak the very dust frae aff our feet;
A fishin' minister! And so discreet
In all his ministrations! But he's young—
Maybe this shred of wickedness has clung
This lang aboot him, as a warnin' sign
That he should never touch your bairn and mine.—
We'll just haud north to Forgan manse, an' get
Auld Doctor Maule—in every way most fit—
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Of auld experience, and stood high langsyne,
Ere we were born; in doctrine clear and sound,
He'll no be at the fishin' I'll be bound.
Wae's me, to think the pious Maister Whyte
In catchin' troots shud tak the least delight!
But, Andra man, just hover for a blink,
He mayna be sae wicked as we think.
What do the Scriptures say? There we are told
Andrew and Peter, James and John of old,
And others mentioned in the Holy Word,
Were fishermen—the chosen of the Lord.
He mayna be sae wicked as we think.
What do the Scriptures say? There we are told
Andrew and Peter, James and John of old,
And others mentioned in the Holy Word,
Were fishermen—the chosen of the Lord.
I'm weel aware o' that, but ye forget,
That when the Apostles fished 'twas wi' the net.
They didna flee about like Hieland kerns,
Wi' hair lines, an' lang wands whuppin' the burns;
No, no, they fished i' the lake o' Galilee,
A Bible loch, almost as big's the sea.
They had their cobles, too, wi' sails and oars,
And plied their usefn' trade beyond the shores.
Besides, though first their trade was catchin' fish—
An honest craft as ony ane could wish—
They gave it up when called upon, and then,
Though they were fishers still, it was o' men.
But this young Maister Whyte first gat a call
To fish for men, and—oh, how sad his fall!—
The learned, pious, yet unworthy skoot,
Neglects his sacred trust to catch a troot!
Noo here comes Forgan manse amang the trees,
A cozie spot, weel shelter'd frae the breeze.
We'll just walk ane by ane up to the door,
An' knock an' do the same's we did before.
The doctor's been a bachelor a' his life;
Ye'd almost tak the servant for his wife,
She's such command ower a' that's said and dune—
Hush! this maun be the cheepin' o' her shune.—
How do you do, mem? there's a bonnie day,
And like to keep sae. We've come a' the way
Frae Edenside to get this bairn bapteesed
By Doctor Maule, if you and he be pleased.
That when the Apostles fished 'twas wi' the net.
They didna flee about like Hieland kerns,
Wi' hair lines, an' lang wands whuppin' the burns;
No, no, they fished i' the lake o' Galilee,
A Bible loch, almost as big's the sea.
They had their cobles, too, wi' sails and oars,
And plied their usefn' trade beyond the shores.
Besides, though first their trade was catchin' fish—
An honest craft as ony ane could wish—
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Though they were fishers still, it was o' men.
But this young Maister Whyte first gat a call
To fish for men, and—oh, how sad his fall!—
The learned, pious, yet unworthy skoot,
Neglects his sacred trust to catch a troot!
Noo here comes Forgan manse amang the trees,
A cozie spot, weel shelter'd frae the breeze.
We'll just walk ane by ane up to the door,
An' knock an' do the same's we did before.
The doctor's been a bachelor a' his life;
Ye'd almost tak the servant for his wife,
She's such command ower a' that's said and dune—
Hush! this maun be the cheepin' o' her shune.—
How do you do, mem? there's a bonnie day,
And like to keep sae. We've come a' the way
Frae Edenside to get this bairn bapteesed
By Doctor Maule, if you and he be pleased.
We've no objections; but the Doctor's gone
A-shootin': since the shootin' time cam' on
Ae meenit frae the gun he's hardly been.
A-shootin': since the shootin' time cam' on
Ae meenit frae the gun he's hardly been.
The Lord protect us! Was the like e'er seen?
A shootin' minister! Think shame, auld wife!
Were he the only minister in Fife
He'd never lay a hand on bairn o' mine;
Irreverent, poachin', poother-an'-lead divine!
Let's shak the dust frae aff our shune again;
Come, Meggie, come awa; I hardly ken
Which o' the twa's the warst; but I wad say
The shootin' minister—he's auld and gray,
Gray in the service o' the kirk, and hence
Wi' age and service shud hae gathered sense.
Now lat's consider, as we stap alang:
Doon to the waterside we needna gang:
I'm tauld the ministers preach naething there
But cauld morality—new-fangled ware
That draps all faith an' trusts to warks alone,
That gangs skin-deep, but never cleaves the bone.
We'll just haud ower—for troth it's wearin' late—
By Pickletillim, and then wast the gate
To auld Kilmeny—it slants hafflins hame,
Which, for the sake o' this toom, grumblin' wame,
I wish were nearer. Hech! to save my saul,
I never can get ower auld Doctor Maule!
It plainly cowes all things aneath the sun!
Whaur, Meggie, whaur's your Scriptur for the gun?
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Were he the only minister in Fife
He'd never lay a hand on bairn o' mine;
Irreverent, poachin', poother-an'-lead divine!
Let's shak the dust frae aff our shune again;
Come, Meggie, come awa; I hardly ken
Which o' the twa's the warst; but I wad say
The shootin' minister—he's auld and gray,
Gray in the service o' the kirk, and hence
Wi' age and service shud hae gathered sense.
Now lat's consider, as we stap alang:
Doon to the waterside we needna gang:
I'm tauld the ministers preach naething there
But cauld morality—new-fangled ware
That draps all faith an' trusts to warks alone,
That gangs skin-deep, but never cleaves the bone.
We'll just haud ower—for troth it's wearin' late—
By Pickletillim, and then wast the gate
To auld Kilmeny—it slants hafflins hame,
Which, for the sake o' this toom, grumblin' wame,
I wish were nearer. Hech! to save my saul,
I never can get ower auld Doctor Maule!
It plainly cowes all things aneath the sun!
Whaur, Meggie, whaur's your Scriptur for the gun?
20
Od, Andra, as we've come alang the road
I've just been kirnin' through the Wird o' God,
Baith auld an' new, as far as I can mind,
But not the least iota can I find.
That maks the Doctor waur than Maister Whyte,
And on his ain auld head brings a' the wyte.
I've just been kirnin' through the Wird o' God,
Baith auld an' new, as far as I can mind,
But not the least iota can I find.
That maks the Doctor waur than Maister Whyte,
And on his ain auld head brings a' the wyte.
It does. The Word gives not the merest hint
O' guns, an' poother's never mentioned in't.
They had their bows and arrows, and their slings,
And implements o' war—auld-fashioned things,
I rackon—for the dingin' doon o' toons,
An' spears, an' swords, an' clubs for crackin' croons;
But as for guns and shot, puir hares to kill,
There's nae authority, look whaur ye will.—
Losh, see! the sun's gaen red, an' looks askance;
The gloamin' fa's; but here's Kilmeny manse.
O' guns, an' poother's never mentioned in't.
They had their bows and arrows, and their slings,
And implements o' war—auld-fashioned things,
I rackon—for the dingin' doon o' toons,
An' spears, an' swords, an' clubs for crackin' croons;
But as for guns and shot, puir hares to kill,
There's nae authority, look whaur ye will.—
Losh, see! the sun's gaen red, an' looks askance;
The gloamin' fa's; but here's Kilmeny manse.
Hark, Andra! is that music that we hear,
Louder an' louder, as we're drawin' near?
It's naething else! I'se wad my braw new goon
The minister's frae hame, an' some wild loon
Comes fiddlin' to the lasses. O, the jads!
The minister's awa—they've in their lads,
An' turned the very manse into a barn,
Fiddlin' an' dancin'—drinkin' too, I'se warran'!
Louder an' louder, as we're drawin' near?
It's naething else! I'se wad my braw new goon
The minister's frae hame, an' some wild loon
Comes fiddlin' to the lasses. O, the jads!
The minister's awa—they've in their lads,
21
Fiddlin' an' dancin'—drinkin' too, I'se warran'!
Tod, Meggie, but ye're richt; I fear ye're richt;
An' here's gray gloamin' sinkin' into nicht,
While we're as near our errant's end as whan
This mornin' wi' the sunrise we began.
We'll e'en gang roond upon the kitchen door,
An' catch the ill-bred herpies at their splore!
Hush! saftly: 'od, I dinna hear their feet,
An' yet the fiddle lilts fu' deft an' sweet.
It's no the little squeakin' fiddle, though;
But ane that bums dowff in its wame and low.
They hear us speakin'—here's the lassie comin'.—
The minister's frae hame, I hear, my woman?
An' here's gray gloamin' sinkin' into nicht,
While we're as near our errant's end as whan
This mornin' wi' the sunrise we began.
We'll e'en gang roond upon the kitchen door,
An' catch the ill-bred herpies at their splore!
Hush! saftly: 'od, I dinna hear their feet,
An' yet the fiddle lilts fu' deft an' sweet.
It's no the little squeakin' fiddle, though;
But ane that bums dowff in its wame and low.
They hear us speakin'—here's the lassie comin'.—
The minister's frae hame, I hear, my woman?
The minister frae hame! he's nae sic thing;
He's ben the hoose there, playin' himsel' a spring.
He's ben the hoose there, playin' himsel' a spring.
The minister a fiddler! sinfu' shame!
I'd sooner far that he had been frae hame.
Though he should live as lang's Methusalem,
I'll never bring anither bairn to him;
Nor will he get the ane we've brocht; na, na;
Come Meggie, tak' the bairn an' come awa;
I wadna lat him look upon its face:
Young woman, you're in danger; leave this place!
Hear hoo the sinner rasps the rosiny strings,
And nocht but reels and ither warldly springs!
Lat's shak the dust ance mair frae aff oor shune,
And leave the pagan to his wicked tune.
I'd sooner far that he had been frae hame.
Though he should live as lang's Methusalem,
I'll never bring anither bairn to him;
Nor will he get the ane we've brocht; na, na;
22
I wadna lat him look upon its face:
Young woman, you're in danger; leave this place!
Hear hoo the sinner rasps the rosiny strings,
And nocht but reels and ither warldly springs!
Lat's shak the dust ance mair frae aff oor shune,
And leave the pagan to his wicked tune.
But Andra, lat's consider: it's sae late,
We canna noo gang ony ither gate,
And as we're here we'll better just haud back
An' get the bairn bapteesed. What does it mak'
Altho' he scrapes a fiddle now and then?
King Dawvit was preferred above all men,
And yet 'twas known he played upon the harp;
And stringèd instruments, baith flat and sharp,
Are mentioned many a time in Holy Writ.
I dinna think it signifees a bit—
The more especially since, as we hear,
It's no the little thing sae screech an' skeer
That drunken fiddlers play in barns an' booths,
But the big gaucy fiddle that sae soothes
The speerit into holiness and calm,
That e'en some kirks hae thocht it mends the psalm.
We canna noo gang ony ither gate,
And as we're here we'll better just haud back
An' get the bairn bapteesed. What does it mak'
Altho' he scrapes a fiddle now and then?
King Dawvit was preferred above all men,
And yet 'twas known he played upon the harp;
And stringèd instruments, baith flat and sharp,
Are mentioned many a time in Holy Writ.
I dinna think it signifees a bit—
The more especially since, as we hear,
It's no the little thing sae screech an' skeer
That drunken fiddlers play in barns an' booths,
But the big gaucy fiddle that sae soothes
The speerit into holiness and calm,
That e'en some kirks hae thocht it mends the psalm.
23
Tempt not the man, O woman! Meggie, I say—
Get thee behind us, Satan!—come, away!
For he, the Evil One, has aye a sicht
O' arguments, to turn wrang into richt.
He's crammed wi' pleasant reasons that assail
Weak woman first, and maistly aye prevail;
Then she, of coorse, maun try her wiles on man,
As Eve on Adam did. Thus sin began,
And thus goes on, I fear, unto this day,
In spite of a' the kirks can do or say.
And what can we expect but sin and woe,
When manses are the hotbeds where they grow?
I grieve for puir Kilmeny, and I grieve
For Leuchars and for Forgan—yea, believe
For Sodom and Gomorrah there will be
A better chance than ony o' the three,
Especially Kilmeny. I maintain—
For a' your reasons, sacred and profane—
The minister that plays the fiddle's waur
Than either o' the ither twa, by far.
And yet, weak woman, ye wad e'en return
And get this fiddler to bapteese oor bairn!
Na, na; we'll tak the bairn to whence it came,
And get oor ain brave minister at hame.
Altho' he may be wrang on mony a point,
An' his salvation scheme sair oot o' joint,
He lays it doon without the slightest fear,
And wins the heart because he's so sincere.
And he's a man that disna need to care
Wha looks into his life; there's naething there,
Nae sin, nae slip of either hand or tongue
That ane can tak and say, “Thou doest wrong.”
His theologic veesion may be skew'd;
But, though the broken cistern he has hew'd
May lat the water through it like a riddle,
He neither fishes, shoots, nor plays the fiddle.
Get thee behind us, Satan!—come, away!
For he, the Evil One, has aye a sicht
O' arguments, to turn wrang into richt.
He's crammed wi' pleasant reasons that assail
Weak woman first, and maistly aye prevail;
Then she, of coorse, maun try her wiles on man,
As Eve on Adam did. Thus sin began,
And thus goes on, I fear, unto this day,
In spite of a' the kirks can do or say.
And what can we expect but sin and woe,
When manses are the hotbeds where they grow?
I grieve for puir Kilmeny, and I grieve
For Leuchars and for Forgan—yea, believe
For Sodom and Gomorrah there will be
A better chance than ony o' the three,
Especially Kilmeny. I maintain—
For a' your reasons, sacred and profane—
The minister that plays the fiddle's waur
Than either o' the ither twa, by far.
And yet, weak woman, ye wad e'en return
And get this fiddler to bapteese oor bairn!
Na, na; we'll tak the bairn to whence it came,
And get oor ain brave minister at hame.
24
An' his salvation scheme sair oot o' joint,
He lays it doon without the slightest fear,
And wins the heart because he's so sincere.
And he's a man that disna need to care
Wha looks into his life; there's naething there,
Nae sin, nae slip of either hand or tongue
That ane can tak and say, “Thou doest wrong.”
His theologic veesion may be skew'd;
But, though the broken cistern he has hew'd
May lat the water through it like a riddle,
He neither fishes, shoots, nor plays the fiddle.
| Scotch Words and the Bapteesement o' the Bairn | |