'Twas in that place o' Scotland's Isle,
That bears the name o' auld King Coil,
Upon a bonnie day in June,
When wearin' through the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that werena thrang at hame, busy
Forgather'd ance upon a time. Met
The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar,
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure;
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, ears
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs,
But whalpit some place far abroad, whelped
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar,
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride, nae pride had he; devil
But wad hae spent are hour caressin'
E'en wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messan: mongrel
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, smithy
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, matted cur, ragged
But he wad stand as glad to see him,
An' stroan'd on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. lanted
The tither was a ploughman's collie, other
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie; fellow
Wha for his friend and comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang,
Was made lang syne—Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, wise, dog
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke; leapt, ditch, wall
His honest sonsie, bawsent face pleasant, white-marked
Aye gat him friends in ilka place, every
His breast was white, his tousie back shaggy
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black:
His gawsie tail, wi' upward curl, joyous
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl. buttocks
Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, glad
And unco pack and thick thegither; intimate
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit;
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit; moles, dug
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
And worried ither in diversion;
Until wi' daffin' weary grown, merriment
Upon a knowe they sat them down, knoll
And there began a lang digression
About the lords of the creation.
I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have;
An' when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. at all
Our Laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents; rent in kind, dues
He rises when he likes himsel';
His flunkies answer at the bell:
He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse; calls
He draws a bonny silken purse
As lang's my tail, where, through the steeks, stitches
The yellow-letter'd Geordie keeks. guinea peeps
Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
And though the gentry first are stechin', cramming
Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan servants, belly
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, rubbish
That's little short o' downright wastrie. waste
Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner! wonder
Poor worthless elf! it eats a dinner
Better than ony tenant man
His Honour has in a' the lan';
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, put, paunch
I own it's past my comprehension.
Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash'd eneugh; troubled
A cottar howkin' in a sheugh, digging, ditch
Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, building, wall
Baring a quarry, and sic like; clearing
Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddy weans, brood, ragged children
And nought but his han'-darg to keep hand-labor
Them right and tight in thack and rape. thatch, rope
And when they meet wi' sair disasters, sore
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer almost
And they maun starve o' cauld and hunger; must
But how it comes I never kent yet. knew
They're maistly wonderfu' contented;
An' buirdly chiels and clever hizzies stout lads, girls
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
But then, to see how ye're negleckit,
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit,
Lord, man! our gentry care sae little
For delvers, ditchers and sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk
As I wad by a stinking brock. badger
I've noticed, on our Laird's court-day,
An' mony a time my heart's been wae.
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash; endure, abuse
He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear,
He'll apprehend them; poind their gear: seize, property
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, must
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!
I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor folk maun be wretches!
They're no' sae wretched's ane wad think,
Though constantly on poortith's brink: poverty's
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,
The view o't gi'es them little fright.
Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided;
An' though fatigued wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives; growing
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fireside.
And whyles twalpenny-worth o' nappy quart of ale
Can mak the bodies unco happy; wonderfully
They lay aside their private cares
To mind the Kirk and State affairs:
They'll talk o' patronage and priests,
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts;
Or tell what new taxation's comin',
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. wonder
As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns
They get the jovial rantin' kirns, harvest-homes
When rural life o' every station.
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.
That merry day the year begins
They bar the door on frosty win's;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream ale, foam
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin' pipe and sneeshin'-mill smoking, snuff-box
Are handed round wi' right gude-will;
The canty auld folk crackin' crouse, cheerful, talking brightly
The young anes ranting through the house—
My heart has been sae fain to see them
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.
Still it's owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. too often
There's mony a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk, well-doing
Are riven out baith root and branch
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin', perhaps, busy
For Britain's gude his soul indentin—indenturing
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it;
For Britain's gude!—guid faith! I doubt it!
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, going
And saying ay or no's they bid him!
At operas and plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading.
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,
To Hague or Calais taks a waft,
To make a tour, an' tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton an' see the worl'.
There, at Vienna, or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails; splits
Or by Madrid he takes the rout,
To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt; fight with bulls
Or down Italian vista startles, courses
Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles;
Then bouses drumly German water, muddy
To make himsel' look fair and fatter,
And clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain's gude!—for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction!
Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate way
They waste sae mony a braw estate?
Are we sae foughten and harass'd troubled
For gear to gang that gate at last? money, go, way
O would they stay aback frae courts,
An' please themselves wi' country sports,
It wad for every ane be better,
The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, those
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows: Devil a bit
Except for breakin' o' their timmer, wasting, timber
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer, mistress
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me, Master Caesar?
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure;
Nae cauld nor hunger o'er can steer them. touch
The very thought o't needna fear them.
Lord, man, were ye but whyles where I am, sometimes
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em,
It's true, they needna starve or sweat,
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat;
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes. hard
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes: gripes, groans
But human bodies are sic fools.
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They make enow themselves to vex them,
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, fret
In like proportion less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh;
A country lassie at her wheel,
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel; dozens
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst,
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst, positive
They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy;
Though de'il haet ails them, yet uneasy; devil a bit
Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless.
And e'en their sports, their balls, and races,
Their galloping through public places;
There's sic parade, sic pomp and art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches,
quarrel
Then sowther a' in deep debauches: solder
Ae night they're mad wi' drink and whoring, One
Neist day their life is past enduring. Next
The ladies arm-in-arm, in clusters,
As great and gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run de'ils and jades thegither. downright
Whyles, owre the wee bit cup and platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks, live-long, crabbed looks
Pore owre the devil's picture beuks; playing-cards
Stake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard,
And cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.
There's some exception, man and woman;
But this is gentry's life in common.
By this the sun was out o' sight,
And darker gloamin' brought the night; twilight
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone, cockchafer
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan; cattle, lowing, lane
When up they gat and shook their lugs, ears
Rejoiced they werena men but dogs;
And each took aff his several way,
Resolved to meet some ither day.
A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty Observation;
And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
The dirk of Defamation:
A mask that like the gorget show'd,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in religion.
Hypocrisy a la Mode.
Upon a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
An' snuff the caller air. fresh
The risin' sun, owre Galston muirs,
Wi' glorious light was glintin';
The hares were hirplin' down the furrs, limping, furrows
The lav'rocks they were chantin' larks
Fu' sweet that day.
As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, stared
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road, girls
Cam skelpin' up the way. scudding
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
But ane wi' lyart lining; gray
The third, that gaed a wee a-back, went a little
Was in the fashion shining
Fu' gay that day.
The twa appeared like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes;
Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin,
An' sour as ony slaes: sloes
The third cam up, hap-stap-an'-lowp, hop-step-and-jump
As light as ony lambie,
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, curtsey
As soon as e'er she saw me,
Fu' kind that day.
Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, ‘Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,
But yet I canna name ye.’
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak,
An' taks me by the hands,
‘Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck most
Of a' the ten commands
A screed some day. rent
‘My name is Fun—your crony dear,
The nearest friend ye hae;
An' this is Superstition here,
An' that's Hypocrisy.
I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
To spend an hour in daffin'; mirth
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair,
We will get famous laughin'
At them this day.’
Quoth I, ‘Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't;
I'll get my Sunday's sark on, shirt
An' meet you on the holy spot;
Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!’
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, porridge
An' soon I made me ready;
For roads were clad, frae side to side,
Wi' mony a wearie bodie
In droves that day.
Here farmers gash in ridin' graith complacent, attire
Gaed hoddin' by their cotters; jogging
There swankies young in braw braid-claith strapping youngsters
Are springin' owre the gutters. over
The lasses, skelpin' barefit, thrang, padding, in crowds
In silks an' scarlets glitter,
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang, slice
An' farls bak'd wi' butter, cakes
Fu' crump that day. crisp
When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,
A greedy glow'r Black Bonnet throws, the elder
An' we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show:
On ev'ry side they're gath'rin';
Some carryin' deals, some chairs an' stools, planks
An' some are busy bleth'rin' gabbling
Right loud that day.
Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, keep off
An' screen our country gentry;
There racer Jess an' twa-three whores
Are blinkin' at the entry.
Here sits a raw o' tittlin' jades, whispering
Wi' heavin' breasts an' bare neck,
An' there a batch o' wabster lads, weaver
Blackguardin' frae Kilmarnock
For fun this day.
Here some are thinkin' on their sins,
An' some upo' their claes; clothes
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, soiled
Anither sighs an' prays:
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, sample
Wi' screw'd up, grace-proud faces;
On that a set o' chaps, at watch,
Thrang winkin' on the lasses Busy
To chairs that day.
O happy is that man an' blest!
Nae wonder that it pride him!
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,
Comes clinkin' down beside him! Sits snugly
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back
He sweetly does compose him;
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
An's loof upon her bosom, And his palm
Unkenn'd that day. Unacknowledged
Now a' the congregation o'er
Is silent expectation;
For Moodie speels the holy door, climbs to
Wi' tidings o' damnation,
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, Satan
'Mang sons o' God present him,
The very sight o' Moodie's face
To's ain het hame had sent him his own hot
Wi' fright that day.
Hear how he clears the points o' faith
Wi' rattlin' an' wi' thumpin'!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
He's stampin' an' he's jumpin'!
His lengthen'd chin, his turned-up snout,
His eldritch squeal an' gestures, weird
O how they fire the heart devout,
Like cantharidian plaisters,
On sic a day! such
But, hark! the tent has chang'd its voice;
There's peace an' rest nae langer;
For a' the real judges rise,
They canna sit for anger.
Smith opens out his cauld harangues, A New Light
On practice and on morals;
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs
To gie the jars an' barrels give
A lift that day.
What signifies his barren shine
Of moral pow'rs an' reason?
His English style an' gesture fine
Are a' clean out o' season.
Like Socrates or Antonine,
Or some auld pagan Heathen,
The moral man he does define,
But ne'er a word o' faith in
That's right that day.
In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison'd nostrum;
For Peebles, frae the water-fit, river-mouth
Ascends the holy rostrum:
See, up he's got the word o' God,
An' meek an' mim has view'd it, prim
While Common Sense
[20] has ta'en the road,
An' aff, an' up the Cowgate
Fast, fast, that day.
Wee Miller, neist, the Guard relieves, next
An' Orthodoxy raibles, rattles by rote
Tho' in his heart he weel believes
An' thinks it auld wives' fables:
But, faith! the birkie wants a Manse, fellow
So cannilie he hums them; prudently, humbugs
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense
Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him nearly half
At times that day.
Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, outer and inner rooms
Wi' yill-caup Commentators; ale-cup
Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, rolls
An' there the pint-stowp clatters;
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,
busy
Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture,
They raise a din, that in the end
Is like to breed a rupture
O' wrath that day.
Leeze me on drink! it gi'es us mair blessings on
Than either school or college;
It kindles wit, it waukens lair, learning
It pangs us fou o' knowledge. crams full
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, small beer
Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, on drinkin' deep,
To kittle up our notion tickle
By night or day.
The lads an' lasses, blythely bent
To mind baith saul an' body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
An' steer about the toddy. stir
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, look
They're makin observations;
While some are cosy i' the neuk, corner
An' formin' assignations
To meet some day.
But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, sounds
Till a' the hills are rairin', roaring
An' echoes back return the shouts;
Black Russel is na sparin';
His piercing words, like Highlan' swords,
Divide the joints an' marrow;
His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell,
Our very ‘sauls does harrow’
Wi' fright that day!
A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, full, flaming brimstone
Whase ragin' flame, an' scorchin' heat,
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
The half-asleep start up wi' fear
An' think they hear it roarin'
When presently it does appear
'Twas but some neebor snorin'
Asleep that day.
'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell
How mony stories past,
An' how they crowded to the yill, ale
When they were a' dismist;
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, wooden drinking vessels
Amang the furms and benches;
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,
Was dealt about in lunches, full portions
An' dawds that day. lumps
In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife, jolly, sensible
An' sits down by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife; Then, cheese
The lasses they are shyer.
The auld guidmen, about the grace,
Frae side to side they bother,
Till some are by his bonnet lays,
An' gi'es them't like a tether, rope
Fu' lang that day.
Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass, Alas!
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma' need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing! make dusty
O wives, be mindful, ance yoursel
How bonnie lads ye wanted,
An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel
Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day! such
Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow, Bell-ringer, rope
Begins to jow an' croon; swing, toll
Some swagger hame the best they dow, can
Some wait the afternoon.
At slaps the billies halt a blink, gaps, kids
Till lasses strip their shoon;
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, shoes
They're a' in famous tune
For crack that day. chat
How mony hearts this day converts
O' sinners and o' lasses!
Their hearts o' static, gin night, are gane before
As saft as ony flesh is.
There's some are fou o' love divine,
There's some are fou o' brandy;
An' mony jobs that day begin,
May end in houghmagandie fornication
Some ither day.
It must be admitted that, as we pass from poem to poem, Scottish
manners are becoming freer, Scottish drink is more potent, Scottish
religion is no longer pure and undefiled. Yet the poet hardly seems
to be at a disadvantage. He certainly is no less interesting; he
impresses our imaginations and rouses our sympathetic understanding as
keenly as ever; there is no abatement of our esthetic relish.
We have seen the Ayrshire peasant alone with his family, at social
gatherings, and at church. We have to see him with his cronies and at
the tavern. Scotch manners and Scotch religion we know now; it is the
turn of Scotch drink. The spirit of that conviviality which was one of
Burns's ruling passions, and which in his class helped to color the
grayness of daily hardship, was rendered by him in verse again and
again: never more triumphantly than in the greatest of his
bacchanalian songs, Willie Brew'd a Peck o' Maut. Indeed it would be
hard to find anywhere in our literature a more revealing utterance of
those effects of alcohol that are not discussed in scientific
literature—the joyous exhilaration, the conviction of (comparative)
sobriety, the temporary intensification of the feeling of good
fellowship. The challenge to the moon is unsurpassable in its
unconscious humor. Yet Arnold thought the world of Scotch drink
unbeautiful.
With greater daring and on a broader canvas Burns has dealt with the
same subject in The Jolly Beggars. For the literary treatment of the
theme he had hints from Ramsay, in whose Merry Beggars and Happy
Beggars groups of half a dozen male and female characters proclaim
their views and join in a chorus in praise of drink. More direct
suggestion for the setting of his “cantata” came from a night visit
made by the poet and two of his friends to the low alehouse kept by
Nancy Gibson (“Poosie Nansie”) in Mauchline. The poem was written in
1785, but Burns never published it and seems almost to have forgotten
its existence.
It is impossible to exaggerate the unpromising nature of the theme.
The place is a den of corruption, the characters are the dregs of
society. A group of tramps and criminals have gathered at the end of
their day's wanderings to drink the very rags from their backs and
wallow in shameless incontinence. An old soldier and a quondam
“daughter of the regiment,” a mountebank and his tinker sweetheart, a
female pickpocket whose Highland bandit lover has been hanged, a
fiddler at fairs who aspires to comfort her but is outdone by a
tinker, a lame ballad-singer and his three wives, one of whom consoles
the fiddler in the face of her husband—such is the choice company.
The action is mere by-play, drunken love making; the main point is the
songs. They are mostly frank autobiography, all pervaded with the
gaiety that comes from the conviction that being at the bottom, they
need not be anxious about falling. Wine, women, and song are their
enthusiasms, and only the song is above the lowest possible level.
Such is the sordid material out of which Burns wrought his greatest
imaginative triumph. To take the reader into such a haunt and have him
pass the evening in such company, not with disgust and nausea but with
relish and joy, is an achievement that stands beside the creation of
the scenes in the Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap. It is accomplished
by virtue of the intensity of the poet's imaginative sympathy with
human nature even in its most degraded forms, and by his power of
finding utterance for the moods of the characters he conceives. The
dramatic power which we have noted in a certain group of the songs
here reaches its height, and in making the reader respond to it he
avails himself of all his literary faculties. Pungent phrasing, a
sense of the squalid picturesque, a humorous appreciation of human
weakness, and a superb command of rollicking rhythms—these elements
of his equipment are particularly notable. But the whole thing is
fused and unified by a wonderful vitality that makes the reading of
it an actual experience. And, though several of the songs are in
English, there is no moralizing, no alien note of any kind to jar the
perfection of its harmony. Scottish literature had seen nothing like
it since Dunbar made the Seven Deadly Sins dance in hell.