Stray Leaves from the Portfolios of Alisander the Seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Henkeckle ::

Has mad Revival Burns broke out,
Prowling the kintra round about,
And biting wi' his teeth devout,
Baith men and women,
That now there's sic a yell and shout,
'Gainst Sunday steamin'?

Or has Saint Andrew, 'clept Agnew,
O' Sabbath keeping zeal sae fou,
Been galloping ilk clachan through,
A-convert making,
That there is sic a great ado
'Bout Sabbath breaking?

Indeed it's true—what need ye spier?
And troth ye weel may think it queer,
That ne'er a whish you'll ever hear
'Bout gigs or noddies,
Or gilded coaches, built to bear
Braw bailie bodies.

Drivers may drink, and swear, and battle,
Horses may reek—poor hard-wrought cattle,—
And wheels owre causey-stanes may rattle,
Wi' ceaseless birr;
But sic unhallowed wark to settle,
What tongue will stir?

147

The Fourth Command enjoins, at least,
A day of rest for man and beast;
That a' that toil may be released
Frae yoke and team;
But say, when was the veto placed
Upon the steam?

Whisht, whisht; we never maun reproach,
A great man riding in his coach,
A vulgar, fat, unloesome hotch,
Beside him lolling;
But should a puff o' steam encroach,
'Twere past a' tholing.

Indeed, 'twad be an awfu' sin
For Sunday Trains on rails to rin,
Disturbing wi' their whizzing din
A peacefu' nation;
And whirling a' that ride therein
To red d---n.

But might the humble sons o' care,
Wha toil and pine sax days and mair,
Not get a breath o' callar air,
Ae day in seven?
No, no; the pack maun gang to prayer,
If they want heaven.

My certy, it wad set them weel
To get a Sunday forenoon's wheel—

148

They wha can scarce get milk and meal
To mak' their crowdie;
And yet they'd steam it to the deil,
Baith saul and body.

But if ye'd keep the day sae holy,
Wi' visage sour and melancholy,
How will you stop the thochtless folly
O' that vile gang,
Whase motto is, ‘Live and be jolly’
The hale day lang?

Just hing a mortclaith owre the sun,
Mak' nature dreary, dark, and dun,
Till even the blade upon the grun'
Forget to grow;
Till mighty rivers cease to run,
And burns to row.

Let woods and forests a' be dumb,
Nor let the reek ascend the lum,
Let man forget his fellow-chum,
And faithfu' rib,
And hurkle down, morose and glum,
Low in his crib.

Shut up ‘rude Boreas’ in his caves;
Nor let ‘old Ocean’ sport his waves;
Mak' trees and shrubs fauld up their leaves,
As if a-dying;
Stop ‘Johnny Ged’ frae howking graves;
And wives—frae crying.

149

Mak' cities solitary glens,
Gie social creatures caves and dens,
Put rams and ewes in separate pens,
To bleat and fast,
And lock the cock up frae the hens
Till Sabbath's past.

Such is the day wad please a Jew,
And rabid Burns, and Saint Agnew,
And a' the sanctimonious crew,
Wi' looks demure,
Wha wi' the bigot's vice wad screw
The labouring poor.

O, gin our Pastors could prevail,
How wad they mak' us cower and quail,
The fient a ride upon a rail
They'd grant ava;
For then their flocks might tak' steam bail,
And skelp awa'.

To check it, then, they've right good cause,
For some might preach to empty wa's;
On pews unlet their lungs and jaws
Might spend their force;
And, therefore, mind ye, ‘empty sta's
Mak' biting horse.’

Hence, Public Meetings now they ca',
At which they glibly gab awa',

150

Wi' haly zeal denouncing a'
Steam Sunday trips;
But catch them hinting aught ava
'Gainst spurs and whips.

And, look ye, how our meek Leadbetter,
The Sunday trains wad try to fetter,
And mak' them, to the vera letter,
The Sabbath keep,
But 'gainst the Sunday Navigator,
Say, will he cheep?

Nae farther gane than Sabbath last,
Despising every surly blast,
Did he not stand beside the mast,
And watch his luggage,
Till at Dunoon he fairly pass'd
Wi' bag and baggage?

And though 'twas then the hour of prayer,
What did his Lowly Meekship care?
Stout porters had his trunks to bear
Up through the toon;
But Glasgow did nae see him there,
'Twas just Dunoon.

And there's our worthy Bailie Bain,
O how it gies the good man pain!
To see the godless puffing train
Swift sweep the rails;
For weel it's kent he mak's nae gain
By Sunday mails.

151

For poor horse flesh how much he feels,
While smack—the brutes tak' to their heels;
Loud blaws the horn, round whirl the wheels—
Awa' they dash;
But then their torture never yields
The Bailie cash.

The mail arrives—what crowds convene,
(Nae desecration, this, I ween,)
Wi' gaping mouths and glowring e'en
The news to swallow;
And wi' debating fierce and keen,
The day to hallow.

It maun gie meikle consolation,
To ane in our gude Bailie's station,
To think how Sabbath desecration
His soul abhors;
Nae pelfish vile consideration,
E'er opes his doors.

It's a' to serve the cause of God,
The Bailie's coaches tak' the road,
Bearing alang their righteous load,
O' news and letters,
Concerning cotton, corn, and cod,
And sic like matters.

These are but samples o' the lave,
Wha wi' demeanour staid and grave,

152

At Sabbath strollers rail and rave,
As hardened sinners;
Yet aft in secret, sweet conclave,
Munch Sunday dinners.

Wi' lengthened phiz, and sour grimace,
They'll talk o' mercy, faith, and grace,
Parading in ilk public place
Their saintly airs;
Yet mock their Maker to his face,
Wi' hollow prayers.

O for a robe of dazzling white,
To clothe ilk hollow hypocrite,
And hide his doings, dark as night,
Frae sinfu' view;
For O, Sirs, 'twere an unco spite
To be seen through!

Weel, let the rich enjoy their ride,
Through town and kintra, far and wide,
In a' their dignity, and pride,
And consequence,
While they the sons o' toil deride
For want o' sense.

But cease to growl, ye worthless poor,
Ye're born privations to endure;
What! Sunday steaming, air that's pure,
And relaxation?
No, mount the tread-mill, that's mair sure
To suit your station.

University of Virginia Library

SUNDAY RAILWAY TRAINS.