Underwoods

With half a heart I wander here
   As from an age gone by
A brother—yet though young in years.
   An elder brother, I.

You speak another tongue than mine,
   Though both were English born.
I towards the night of time decline,
   You mount into the morn.

Youth shall grow great and strong and free,
   But age must still decay:
To-morrow for the States—for me,
   England and Yesterday.

San Francisco.

I am a kind of farthing dip,
   Unfriendly to the nose and eyes;
A blue-behinded ape, I skip
   Upon the trees of Paradise.

At mankind’s feast, I take my place
   In solemn, sanctimonious state,
And have the air of saying grace
   While I defile the dinner plate.

Yet still, about the human pale,
   I love to scamper, love to race,
To swing by my irreverent tail
   All over the most holy place;

And when at length, some golden day,
   The unfailing sportsman, aiming at,
Shall bag, me—all the world shall say:
   Thank God, and there’s an end of that!

Sing clearlier, Muse, or evermore be still,
Sing truer or no longer sing!
No more the voice of melancholy Jacques
To wake a weeping echo in the hill;
But as the boy, the pirate of the spring,
From the green elm a living linnet takes,
One natural verse recapture—then be still.

For love of lovely words, and for the sake
Of those, my kinsmen and my countrymen,
Who early and late in the windy ocean toiled
To plant a star for seamen, where was then
The surfy haunt of seals and cormorants:
I, on the lintel of this cot, inscribe
The name of a strong tower.

Here all is sunny, and when the truant gull
Skims the green level of the lawn, his wing
Dispetals roses; here the house is framed
Of kneaded brick and the plumed mountain pine,
Such clay as artists fashion and such wood
As the tree-climbing urchin breaks.  But there
Eternal granite hewn from the living isle
And dowelled with brute iron, rears a tower
That from its wet foundation to its crown
Of glittering glass, stands, in the sweep of winds,
Immovable, immortal, eminent.

My house, I say.  But hark to the sunny doves
That make my roof the arena of their loves,
That gyre about the gable all day long
And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song:
Our house, they say; and mine, the cat declares
And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs;
And mine the dog, and rises stiff with wrath
If any alien foot profane the path.
So too the buck that trimmed my terraces,
Our whilome gardener, called the garden his;
Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode
And his late kingdom, only from the road.

Say not of me that weakly I declined
The labours of my sires, and fled the sea,
The towers we founded and the lamps we lit,
To play at home with paper like a child.
But rather say: In the afternoon of time
A strenuous family dusted from its hands
The sand of granite, and beholding far
Along the sounding coast its pyramids
And tall memorials catch the dying sun,
Smiled well content, and to this childish task
Around the fire addressed its evening hours.

Far ’yont amang the years to be
When a’ we think, an’ a’ we see,
An’ a’ we luve, ’s been dung ajee
      By time’s rouch shouther,
An’ what was richt and wrang for me
      Lies mangled throu’ther,

It’s possible—it’s hardly mair—
That some ane, ripin’ after lear—
Some auld professor or young heir,
      If still there’s either—
May find an’ read me, an’ be sair
      Perplexed, puir brither!

“Few spak it then, an’ noo there’s nane.
My puir auld sangs lie a’ their lane,
Their sense, that aince was braw an’ plain,
      Tint a’thegether,
Like runes upon a standin’ stane
      Amang the heather.

“But think not you the brae to speel;
You, tae, maun chow the bitter peel;
For a’ your lear, for a’ your skeel,
      Ye’re nane sae lucky;
An’ things are mebbe waur than weel
      For you, my buckie.

“Your book, that in some braw new tongue,
Ye wrote or prentit, preached or sung,
Will still be just a bairn, an’ young
      In fame an’ years,
Whan the hale planet’s guts are dung
      About your ears;

“An’ you, sair gruppin’ to a spar
Or whammled wi’ some bleezin’ star,
Cryin’ to ken whaur deil ye are,
      Hame, France, or Flanders—
Whang sindry like a railway car
      An’ flie in danders.”

Frae nirly, nippin’, Eas’lan’ breeze,
Frae Norlan’ snaw, an’ haar o’ seas,
Weel happit in your gairden trees,
      A bonny bit,
Atween the muckle Pentland’s knees,
      Secure ye sit.

Beeches an’ aiks entwine their theek,
An’ firs, a stench, auld-farrant clique.
A’ simmer day, your chimleys reek,
      Couthy and bien;
An’ here an’ there your windies keek
      Amang the green.

The gairdner crooks his weary back
A’ day in the pitaty-track,
Or mebbe stops awhile to crack
      Wi’ Jane the cook,
Or at some buss, worm-eaten-black,
      To gie a look.

Frae the high hills the curlew ca’s;
The sheep gang baaing by the wa’s;
Or whiles a clan o’ roosty craws
      Cangle thegether;
The wild bees seek the gairden raws,
      Weariet wi’ heather.

Here aft hae I, wi’ sober heart,
For meditation sat apairt,
When orra loves or kittle art
      Perplexed my mind;
Here socht a balm for ilka smart
      O’ humankind.

Here aft, weel neukit by my lane,
Wi’ Horace, or perhaps Montaigne,
The mornin’ hours hae come an’ gane
      Abüne my heid—
I wadnae gi’en a chucky-stane
      For a’ I’d read.

An’ noo the winter winds complain;
Cauld lies the glaur in ilka lane;
On draigled hizzie, tautit wean
      An’ drucken lads,
In the mirk nicht, the winter rain
      Dribbles an’ blads.

Whan bugles frae the Castle rock,
An’ beaten drums wi’ dowie shock,
Wauken, at cauld-rife sax o’clock,
      My chitterin’ frame,
I mind me on the kintry cock,
      The kintry hame.

When aince Aprile has fairly come,
An’ birds may bigg in winter’s lum,
An’ pleisure’s spreid for a’ and some
      O’ whatna state,
Love, wi’ her auld recruitin’ drum,
      Than taks the gate.

The heart plays dunt wi’ main an’ micht;
The lasses’ een are a’ sae bricht,
Their dresses are sae braw an’ ticht,
      The bonny birdies!—
Puir winter virtue at the sicht
      Gangs heels ower hurdies.

An’ I, wha sang o’ rain an’ snaw,
An’ weary winter weel awa’,
Noo busk me in a jacket braw,
      An’ tak my place
I’ the ram-stam, harum-scarum raw,
      Wi’ smilin’ face.

A mile an’ a bittock, a mile or twa,
Abüthe burn, ayont the law,
Davie an’ Donal’ an’ Cherlie an’ a’,
   An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!

Ane went hame wi’ the ither, an’ then
The ither went hame wi’ the ither twa men,
An’ baith wad return him the service again,
   An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!

A wind got up frae affa the sea,
It blew the stars as clear’s could be,
It blew in the een of a’ o’ the three,
   An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!

Noo, Davie was first to get sleep in his head,
“The best o’ frien’s maun twine,” he said;
“I’m weariet, an’ here I’m awa’ to my bed.”
   An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!

Twa o’ them walkin’ an’ crackin’ their lane,
The mornin’ licht cam gray an’ plain,
An’ the birds they yammert on stick an’ stane,
   An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!

O years ayont, O years awa’,
My lads, ye’ll mind whate’er befa’—
My lads, ye’ll mind on the bield o’ the law,
   When the müne was shinin’ clearly.

The clinkum-clank o’ Sabbath bells
Noo to the hoastin’ rookery swells,
Noo faintin’ laigh in shady dells,
      Sounds far an’ near,
An’ through the simmer kintry tells
      Its tale o’ cheer.

An’ noo, to that melodious play,
A’ deidly awn the quiet sway—
A’ ken their solemn holiday,
      Bestial an’ human,
The singin’ lintie on the brae,
      The restin’ plou’man,

The steerin’ mither strang afit
Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit;
Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shüit
      To scart upon them,
Or sweeties in their pouch to pit,
      Wi’ blessin’s on them.

The lasses, clean frae tap to taes,
Are busked in crunklin’ underclaes;
The gartened hose, the weel-filled stays,
      The nakit shift,
A’ bleached on bonny greens for days,
      An’ white’s the drift.

Our Marg’et, aye sae keen to crack,
Douce-stappin’ in the stoury track,
Her emeralt goun a’ kiltit back
      Frae snawy coats,
White-ankled, leads the kirkward pack
      Wi’ Dauvit Groats.

A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks,
A’ spiled wi’ lyin’ by for weeks,
The guidman follows closs, an’ cleiks
      The sonsie missis;
His sarious face at aince bespeaks
      The day that this is.

But hark! the bells frae nearer clang;
To rowst the slaw, their sides they bang;
An’ see! black coats a’ready thrang
      The green kirkyaird;
And at the yett, the chestnuts spang
      That brocht the laird.

The solemn elders at the plate
Stand drinkin’ deep the pride o’ state:
The practised hands as gash an’ great
      As Lords o’ Session;
The later named, a wee thing blate
      In their expression.

It’s here our Merren lang has lain,
A wee bewast the table-stane;
An’ yon’s the grave o’ Sandy Blane;
      An’ further ower,
The mither’s brithers, dacent men!
      Lie a’ the fower.

Here the guidman sall bide awee
To dwall amang the deid; to see
Auld faces clear in fancy’s e’e;
      Belike to hear
Auld voices fa’in saft an’ slee
      On fancy’s ear.

But noo the bell is ringin’ in;
To tak their places, folk begin;
The minister himsel’ will shüne
      Be up the gate,
Filled fu’ wi’ clavers about sin
      An’ man’s estate.

The tünes are up—French, to be shüre,
The faithfü’ French, an’ twa-three mair;
The auld prezentor, hoastin’ sair,
      Wales out the portions,
An’ yirks the tüne into the air
      Wi’ queer contortions.

For noo’s the time whan pews are seen
Nid-noddin’ like a mandareen;
When tenty mithers stap a preen
      In sleepin’ weans;
An’ nearly half the parochine
      Forget their pains.

There’s just a waukrif’ twa or three:
Thrawn commentautors sweer to ’gree,
Weans glowrin’ at the bumlin’ bee
      On windie-glasses,
Or lads that tak a keek a-glee
      At sonsie lasses.

Wi’ sappy unction, hoo he burkes
The hopes o’ men that trust in works,
Expounds the fau’ts o’ ither kirks,
      An’ shaws the best o’ them
No muckle better than mere Turks,
      When a’s confessed o’ them.

Bethankit! what a bonny creed!
What mair would ony Christian need?—
The braw words rumm’le ower his heid,
      Nor steer the sleeper;
And in their restin’ graves, the deid
      Sleep aye the deeper.

O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Why chops are guid to brander and nane sae guid to fry.
An’ siller, that’s sae braw to keep, is brawer still to gi’e.
—It’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.

O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Hoo a’ things come to be whaur we find them when we try,
The lasses in their claes an’ the fishes in the sea.
—It’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.

O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Why lads are a’ to sell an’ lasses a’ to buy;
An’ naebody for dacency but barely twa or three
—It’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.

O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar wife says I—
The reason o’ the cause an’ the wherefore o’ the why,
Wi’ mony anither riddle brings the tear into my e’e.
—It’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.

It’s rainin’.  Weet’s the gairden sod,
Weet the lang roads whaur gangrels plod—
A maist unceevil thing o’ God
      In mid July—
If ye’ll just curse the sneckdraw, dod!
      An’ sae wull I!

He’s a braw place in Heev’n, ye ken,
An’ lea’s us puir, forjaskit men
Clamjamfried in the but and ben
      He ca’s the earth—
A wee bit inconvenient den
      No muckle worth;

An’ whiles, whan they tak heart again,
An’ life i’ the sun looks braw an’ plain,
Doun comes a jaw o’ droukin’ rain
      Upon their honours—
God sends a spate outower the plain,
      Or mebbe thun’ers.

Lord safe us, life’s an unco thing!
Simmer an’ Winter, Yule an’ Spring,
The damned, dour-heartit seasons bring
      A feck o’ trouble.
I wadnae try’t to be a king—
      No, nor for double.

My bonny man, the warld, it’s true,
Was made for neither me nor you;
It’s just a place to warstle through,
      As job confessed o’t;
And aye the best that we’ll can do
      Is mak the best o’t.

There’s rowth o’ wrang, I’m free to say:
The simmer brunt, the winter blae,
The face of earth a’ fyled wi’ clay
      An’ dour wi’ chuckies,
An’ life a rough an’ land’art play
      For country buckies.

A feck o’ folk frae first to last
Have through this queer experience passed;
Twa-three, I ken, just damn an’ blast
      The hale transaction;
But twa-three ithers, east an’ wast,
      Fand satisfaction,

Whaur braid the briery muirs expand,
A waefü’ an’ a weary land,
The bumblebees, a gowden band,
      Are blithely hingin’;
An’ there the canty wanderer fand
      The laverock singin’.

Sic-like the howes o’ life to some:
Green loans whaur they ne’er fash their thumb.
But mark the muckle winds that come
      Soopin’ an’ cool,
Or hear the powrin’ burnie drum
      In the shilfa’s pool.

The evil wi’ the guid they tak;
They ca’ a gray thing gray, no black;
To a steigh brae, a stubborn back
      Addressin’ daily;
An’ up the rude, unbieldy track
      O’ life, gang gaily.

An’ since at life ye’ve taen the grue,
An’ winnae blithely hirsle through,
Ye’ve fund the very thing to do—
      That’s to drink speerit;
An’ shüne we’ll hear the last o’ you—
      An’ blithe to hear it!

The shoon ye coft, the life ye lead,
Ithers will heir when aince ye’re deid;
They’ll heir your tasteless bite o’ breid,
      An’ find it sappy;
They’ll to your dulefü’ house succeed,
      An’ there be happy.

It’s strange that God should fash to frame
   The yearth and lift sae hie,
An’ clean forget to explain the same
   To a gentleman like me.

They gutsy, donnered ither folk,
   Their weird they weel may dree;
But why present a pig in a poke
   To a gentleman like me?

They ither folk their parritch eat
   An’ sup their sugared tea;
But the mind is no to be wyled wi’ meat
   Wi’ a gentleman like me.

They ither folk, for richt or wrang,
   They suffer, bleed, or dee;
But a’ thir things are an emp’y sang
   To a gentleman like me.

It’s a different thing that I demand,
   Tho’ humble as can be—
A statement fair in my Maker’s hand
   To a gentleman like me:

A clear account writ fair an’ broad,
   An’ a plain apologie;
Or the deevil a ceevil word to God
   From a gentleman like me.

Dear Thamson class, whaure’er I gang
It aye comes ower me wi’ a spang:
“Lordsake! they Thamson lads—(deil hang
      Or else Lord mend them!)—
An’ that wanchancy annual sang
      I ne’er can send them!”

Straucht, at the name, a trusty tyke,
My conscience girrs ahint the dyke;
Straucht on my hinderlands I fyke
      To find a rhyme t’ ye;
Pleased—although mebbe no pleased-like—
      To gie my time t’ye.

My lads, an’ what am I to say?
Ye shürely ken the Muse’s way:
Yestreen, as gleg’s a tyke—the day,
      Thrawn like a cuddy:
Her conduc’, that to her’s a play,
      Deith to a body.

Aft whan I sat an’ made my mane,
Aft whan I laboured burd-alane
Fishin’ for rhymes an’ findin’ nane,
      Or nane were fit for ye—
Ye judged me cauld’s a chucky stane—
      No car’n’ a bit for ye!

Wae’s me, for the puir callant than!
He wambles like a poke o’ bran,
An’ the lowse rein, as hard’s he can,
      Pu’s, trem’lin’ handit;
Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan’
      Behauld him landit.

Sic-like—I awn the weary fac’—
Whan on my muse the gate I tak,
An’ see her gleed e’e raxin’ back
      To keek ahint her;—
To me, the brig o’ Heev’n gangs black
      As blackest winter.

Kittle the quaere!  But at least
The day I’ve backed the fashious beast,
While she, wi’ mony a spang an’ reist,
      Flang heels ower bonnet;
An’ a’ triumphant—for your feast,
      Hae! there’s your sonnet!

The Lord Himsel’ in former days
Waled out the proper tünes for praise
An’ named the proper kind o’ claes
      For folk to preach in:
Preceese and in the chief o’ ways
      Important teachin’.

He ordered a’ things late and air’;
He ordered folk to stand at prayer,
(Although I cannae just mind where
      He gave the warnin’,)
An’ pit pomatum on their hair
      On Sabbath mornin’.

While thus the lave o’ mankind’s lost,
O’ Scotland still God maks His boast—
Puir Scotland, on whase barren coast
      A score or twa
Auld wives wi’ mutches an’ a hoast
      Still keep His law.

In Scotland, a wheen canty, plain,
Douce, kintry-leevin’ folk retain
The Truth—or did so aince—alane
      Of a’ men leevin’;
An’ noo just twa o’ them remain—
      Just Begg an’ Niven.

O punctum temporis for action
To a’ o’ the reformin’ faction,
If yet, by ony act or paction,
      Thocht, word, or sermon,
This dark an’ damnable transaction
      Micht yet determine!

For see—as Doctor Begg explains—
Hoo easy ’t’s düne! a pickle weans,
Wha in the Hie Street gaither stanes
      By his instruction,
The uncovenantit, pentit panes
      Ding to destruction.

Noo choose ye out a walie hammer;
About the knottit buttress clam’er;
Alang the steep roof stoyt an’ stammer,
      A gate mis-chancy;
On the aul’ spire, the bells’ hie cha’mer,
      Dance your bit dancie.

Ding, devel, dunt, destroy, an’ ruin,
Wi’ carnal stanes the square bestrewin’,
Till your loud chaps frae Kyle to Fruin,
      Frae Hell to Heeven,
Tell the guid wark that baith are doin’—
      Baith Begg an’ Niven.

In a letter from Mr. Thomson to Mr. Johnstone.

In mony a foreign pairt I’ve been,
An’ mony an unco ferlie seen,
Since, Mr. Johnstone, you and I
Last walkit upon Cocklerye.
Wi’ gleg, observant een, I pass’t
By sea an’ land, through East an’ Wast,
And still in ilka age an’ station
Saw naething but abomination.
In thir uncovenantit lands
The gangrel Scot uplifts his hands

For after years wi’ a pockmantie
Frae Zanzibar to Alicante,
In mony a fash and sair affliction
I gie’t as my sincere conviction—
Of a’ their foreign tricks an’ pliskies,
I maist abominate their whiskies.
Nae doot, themsel’s, they ken it weel,
An’ wi’ a hash o’ leemon peel,
And ice an’ siccan filth, they ettle
The stawsome kind o’ goo to settle;
Sic wersh apothecary’s broos wi’
As Scotsmen scorn to fyle their moo’s wi’.

An’ blithe was I, the morrow’s morn,
To daunder through the stookit corn,
And after a’ my strange mishanters,
Sit doun amang my ain dissenters.
An’, man, it was a joy to me
The pu’pit an’ the pews to see,
The pennies dirlin’ in the plate,
The elders lookin’ on in state;
An’ ’mang the first, as it befell,
Wha should I see, sir, but yoursel’

Late in the nicht in bed I lay,
The winds were at their weary play,
An’ tirlin’ wa’s an’ skirlin’ wae
      Through Heev’n they battered;—
On-ding o’ hail, on-blaff o’ spray,
      The tempest blattered.

The masoned house it dinled through;
It dung the ship, it cowped the coo’.
The rankit aiks it overthrew,
      Had braved a’ weathers;
The strang sea-gleds it took an’ blew
      Awa’ like feathers.

To hear in the pit-mirk on hie
The brangled collieshangie flie,
The warl’, they thocht, wi’ land an’ sea,
      Itsel’ wad cowpit;
An’ for auld airn, the smashed debris
      By God be rowpit.

Meanwhile frae far Aldeboran,
To folks wi’ talescopes in han’,
O’ ships that cowpit, winds that ran,
      Nae sign was seen,
But the wee warl’ in sunshine span
      As bricht’s a preen.

The wind may blaw, the heathen rage,
The deil may start on the rampage;—
The sick in bed, the thief in cage—
      What’s a’ to me?
Cosh in my house, a sober sage,
      I sit an’ see.

An’ whiles the bluid spangs to my bree,
To lie sae saft, to live sae free,
While better men maun do an’ die
      In unco places.
“Whaur’s God?” I cry, an’ “Whae is me
      To hae sic graces?”

I mind me on the hoastin’ weans—
The penny joes on causey stanes—
The auld folk wi’ the crazy banes,
      Baith auld an’ puir,
That aye maun thole the winds an’ rains
      An’ labour sair.

An’ whiles I’m kind o’ pleased a blink,
An’ kind o’ fleyed forby, to think,
For a’ my rowth o’ meat an’ drink
      An’ waste o’ crumb,
I’ll mebbe have to thole wi’ skink
      In Kingdom Come.

O Lord, if this indeed be sae,
Let daw that sair an’ happy day!
Again’ the warl’, grawn auld an’ gray,
      Up wi’ your aixe!
An’ let the puir enjoy their play—
      I’ll thole my paiks.

Of a’ the ills that flesh can fear,
The loss o’ frien’s, the lack o’ gear,
A yowlin’ tyke, a glandered mear,
      A lassie’s nonsense—
There’s just ae thing I cannae bear,
      An’ that’s my conscience.

Whan day (an’ a’ excüse) has gane,
An’ wark is düne, and duty’s plain,
An’ to my chalmer a’ my lane
      I creep apairt,
My conscience! hoo the yammerin’ pain
      Stends to my heart!

An’ there were a’ the lures o’ life,
There pleesure skirlin’ on the fife,
There anger, wi’ the hotchin’ knife
      Ground shairp in Hell—
My conscience!—you that’s like a wife!—
      Whaur was yoursel’?

I ken it fine: just waitin’ here,
To gar the evil waur appear,
To clart the guid, confüse the clear,
      Mis-ca’ the great,
My conscience! an’ to raise a steer
      Whan a’s ower late.

(Whan the dear doctor, dear to a’,
Was still amang us here belaw,
I set my pipes his praise to blaw
      Wi’ a’ my speerit;
But noo, Dear Doctor! he’s awa’,
      An’ ne’er can hear it.)

By Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees,
By a’ the various river-Dee’s,
In Mars and Manors ’yont the seas
      Or here at hame,
Whaure’er there’s kindly folk to please,
      They ken your name.

As at the gowff, some canny play’r
Should tee a common ba’ wi’ care—
Should flourish and deleever fair
      His souple shintie—
An’ the ba’ rise into the air,
      A leevin’ lintie:

Sae in the game we writers play,
There comes to some a bonny day,
When a dear ferlie shall repay
      Their years o’ strife,
An’ like your Rab, their things o’ clay,
      Spreid wings o’ life.

Your e’e was gleg, your fingers dink;
Ye didnae fash yoursel’ to think,
But wove, as fast as puss can link,
      Your denty wab:—
Ye stapped your pen into the ink,
      An’ there was Rab!

Sinsyne, whaure’er your fortune lay
By dowie den, by canty brae,
Simmer an’ winter, nicht an’ day,
      Rab was aye wi’ ye;
An’ a’ the folk on a’ the way
      Were blithe to see ye.

For though, whaure’er yoursel’ may be,
We’ve just to turn an’ glisk a wee,
An’ Rab at heel we’re shüre to see
      Wi’ gladsome caper:—
The bogle of a bogle, he—
      A ghaist o’ paper!

And as the auld-farrand hero sees
In Hell a bogle Hercules,
Pit there the lesser deid to please,
      While he himsel’
Dwalls wi’ the muckle gods at ease
      Far raised frae hell:

It’s an owercome sooth for age an’ youth
   And it brooks wi’ nae denial,
That the dearest friends are the auldest friends
   And the young are just on trial.

There’s a rival bauld wi’ young an’ auld
   And it’s him that has bereft me;
For the sürest friends are the auldest friends
   And the maist o’ mines hae left me.

There are kind hearts still, for friends to fill
   And fools to take and break them;
But the nearest friends are the auldest friends
   And the grave’s the place to seek them.