A Night Out with Burns

by Robert Burns

  Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle,

  And roar ev’ry note o’ the DAMN’D, &c.

  Simper James, Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames,

  There’s a holier chase in your view:

  I’ll lay on your head that the PACK ye’ll soon lead,

  For PUPPIES like you there’s but few, &c.

  Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, are ye herding the PENNIE,

  Unconscious what danger awaits?

  With a jump, yell and howl, alarm ev’ry soul,

  For Hannibal’s just at your gates, &c.

  Poet Willie, Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley

  Wi’ your ‘liberty’s chain’ and your wit:

  O’er Pegasus’ side ye ne’er laid a stride,

  Ye only stood by where he shit, &c.

  Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, ye may slander the BOOK,

  And the BOOK nought the waur, let me tell ye:

  Ye’re rich and look big, but lay by hat and wig—

  And ye’ll hae a CALF’S-HEAD o’ sma’ value, &c.

  Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye?

  If ye’ll meddle nae mair wi’ the matter,

  Ye may hae some pretence, man, to havins and sense, man,—

  Wi’ people that ken you nae better, &c.

  Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, ye hae made but toom roose

  O’ hunting the wicked Lieutenant;

  But the Doctor’s your mark, for the Lord’s holy ark

  He has couper’d and ca’d a wrang pin in, &c.

  Davie Rant, Davie Rant, wi’ a face like a saunt,

  And a heart that wad poison a hog;

  Raise an impudent roar, like a breaker lee-shore,

  Or the KIRK will be tint in a bog, &c.

  Cessnock-side, Cessnock-side, wi’ your turkey-cock pride,

  O’ manhood but sma’ is your share;

  Ye’ve the figure, it’s true, even your faes maun allow,

  And your friends dare na say ye hae mair, &c.

  Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock, whom the Lord made a rock

  To crush Common sense for her sins;

  If ill-manners were Wit, there’s no mortal so fit

  To confound the poor Doctor at ance, &c.

  Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, there’a a tod i’ the fauld,

  A tod meikle waur than the CLERK:

  Tho’ ye do little skaith ye’ll be in at the death,

  For if ye canna bite ye can bark, &c.

  Holy Will, Holy Will, there was wit i’ your skull,

  When ye pilfer’d the alms o’ the poor;

  The timmer is scant, when ye’re ta’en for a saint,

  Wha should swing in a rape for an hour, &c.

  Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi’ your priest-skelping turns,

  Why desert ye your auld native shire?

  Tho’ your Muse is a gipsey, yet were she even tipsey,

  She could ca’ us nae waur than we are, Poet Burns,

  She could ca’ us nae waur than we are.—

  With a true poet, sedition may show itself in the metre, and Burns knew best of all how to breathe liberal philosophy into the rhythm of his lines. Fundamentalism’s iron rhetoric may yield to nothing but the softness of flesh, but here is sensuality and humour in a poem. And that may be counted among Burns’s secrets: he gives life to fairness by discovering the roots of its sound.

  The Holy Fair

  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 callor air:

  The rising sun, owre GALSTON muirs,

  Wi’ glorious light was glintan;

  The hares were hirplan down the furrs,

  The lav’rocks they were chantan

  Fu’ sweet that day.

  As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad,

  To see a scene sae gay,

  Three hizzies, early at the road,

  Cam skelpan up the way.

  Twa had manteeles o’ dolefu’ black,

  But ane wi’ lyart lining;

  The third, that gaed a wee aback,

  Was in the fashion shining

  Fu’ gay that day.

  The twa appear’d like sisters twin,

  In feature, form, an’ claes;

  Their visage—wither’d, lang an’ thin,

  An’ sour as onie slaes:

  The third cam up, hap-step-an’-loup,

  As light as onie lambie,—

  An’ wi’ a curchie low did stoop,

  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 bonie face,

  But yet I canna name ye.—’

  Quo’ she, an’ laughan as she spak,

  An’ taks me by the hands,

  ‘Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck

  Of a’ the ten commands

  A screed some day.

  ‘My name is FUN—your cronie 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;

  Gin ye’ll go there, yon runkl’d pair,

  We will get famous laughin

  At them this day.’

  Quoth I, ‘With a’ my heart, I’ll do’t;

  I’ll get my Sunday’s sark on,

  An’ meet you on the holy spot;

  Faith, we’se hae fine remarkin!’

  Then I gaed hame, at crowdie-time,

  An’ soon I made me ready;

  For roads were clad, frae side to side,

  Wi’ monie a weary body,

  In droves that day.

  Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith,

  Gaed hoddan by their cotters;

  There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith,

  Are springan owre the gutters.

  The lasses, skelpan barefit, thrang,

  In silks an’ scarlets glitter;

  Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,

  An’ farls, bak’d wi’ butter,

  Fu’ crump that day.

  When by the plate we set our nose,

  Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence,

  A greedy glowr Black-bonnet throws,

  An’ we maun draw our tippence.

  Then in we go to see the show,

  On ev’ry side they’re gath’ran;

  Some carryan dails, some chairs an’ stools,

  An’ some are busy bleth’ran

  Right loud that day.

  Here, stands a shed to fend the show’rs,

  An’ screen our countra Gentry;

  There, Racer-Jess, an’ twathree whores,

  Are blinkan at the entry:

  Here sits a raw o’ tittlan jads,

  Wi’ heaving breasts an’ bare neck;

  An’ there, a batch o’ Wabster lads,

  Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock

  For fun this day.

  Here, some are thinkan on their sins,

  An’ some upo’ their claes;

  Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins,

  Anither sighs an’ prays:

  On this hand sits a Chosen swatch,

  Wi’ screw’d-up, grace-proud faces;

  On that, a set o’ chaps, at watch,

  Thrang winkan on the lasses

  To chairs that day.

  O happy is that man, an’ blest!
<
br />   Nae wonder that it pride him!

  Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,

  Comes clinkan down beside him!

  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

  Unkend that day.

  Now a’ the congregation o’er,

  Is silent expectation;

  For Moodie speels the holy door,

  Wi’ tidings o’ damnation:

  Should Hornie, as in ancient days,

  ’Mang sons o’ God present him,

  The vera sight o’ Moodie’s face,

  To ’s ain het hame had sent him

  Wi’ fright that day.

  Hear how he clears the points o’ Faith

  Wi’ rattlin an’ thumpin!

  Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,

  He’s stampan, an’ he’s jumpan!

  His lengthen’d chin, his turn’d up snout,

  His eldritch squeel an’ gestures,

  O how they fire the heart devout,

  Like cantharidian plaisters

  On sic a day!

  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,

  On practice and on morals;

  An’ aff the godly pour in thrangs,

  To gie the jars an’ barrels

  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 poosion’d nostrum;

  For Peebles, frae the water-fit,

  Ascends the holy rostrum:

  See, up he’s got the Word o’ God,

  An’ meek an’ mim has view’d it,

  While COMMON-SENSE has taen the road,

  An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate

  Fast, fast that day.

  Wee Miller niest, the Guard relieves,

  An’ Orthodoxy raibles,

  Tho’ in his heart he weel believes,

  An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables:

  But faith! the birkie wants a Manse,

  So, cannilie he hums them;

  Altho’ his carnal Wit an’ Sense

  Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes him

  At times that day.

  Now, butt an’ ben, the Change-house fills,

  Wi’ yill-caup Commentators:

  Here’s crying out for bakes an’ gills,

  An’ there, the pint-stowp clatters;

  While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang,

  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 gies us mair

  Than either School or Colledge:

  It kindles Wit, it waukens Lear,

  It pangs us fou o’ Knowledge.

  Be’t whisky-gill or penny-wheep,

  Or onie stronger potion,

  It never fails, on drinkin deep,

  To kittle up our notion,

  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.

  On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk,

  They’re makin observations;

  While some are cozie i’ the neuk,

  An’ forming assignations

  To meet some day.

  But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts,

  Till a’ the hills are rairan,

  An’ echos back return the shouts,

  Black Russell is na spairan:

  His piercin words, like highlan swords,

  Divide the joints an’ marrow;

  His talk o’ Hell, whare devils dwell,

  Our vera ‘Sauls does harrow’

  Wi’ fright that day.

  A vast, unbottom’d, boundless Pit,

  Fill’d fou o’ lowan brunstane.

  Whase raging flame, an’ scorching heat,

  Wad melt the hardest whunstane!

  The half-asleep start up wi’ fear,

  An’ think they hear it roaran,

  When presently it does appear,

  ’Twas but some neebor snoran

  Asleep that day.

  ’Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,

  How monie stories past,

  An’ how they crouded to the yill,

  When they were a’ dismist:

  How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups,

  Amang the furms an’ benches;

  An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps,

  Was dealt about in lunches,

  An’ dawds that day.

  In comes a gausie, gash Guidwife,

  An’ sits down by the fire,

  Syn draws her kebbuck an’ her knife;

  The lasses they are shyer.

  The auld Guidmen, about the grace,

  Frae side to side they bother,

  Till some ane by his bonnet lays,

  An’ gies them’t, like a tether,

  Fu’ lang that day.

  Wae sucks! for him that gets nae lass,

  Or lasses that hae naething!

  Sma’ need has he to say a grace,

  Or melvie his braw claething!

  O Wives be mindfu’, ance yoursel,

  How bonie lads ye wanted,

  An’ dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,

  Let lasses be affronted

  On sic a day!

  Now Clinkumbell, wi’ rattlan tow,

  Begins to jow an’ croon;

  Some swagger hame, the best they dow,

  Some wait the afternoon.

  At slaps the billies halt a blink,

  Till lasses strip their shoon:

  Wi’ faith an’ hope, an’ love an’ drink,

  They’re a’ in famous tune

  For crack that day.

  How monie hearts this day converts,