A Night Out with Burns (7 page)
Read A Night Out with Burns Online
Authors: Robert Burns
T
he Ayrshire fiction-writer John Galt â Coleridge's favourite novelist â must have got the idea of the pawky, double-dealing minister from Burns, for in
Annals of the
Parish
he presents a man totally relentless in his scraping manners and his pantomimic piety. The combination is native to Holy Willie, who reminds us that self-abasement is merely the queasier partner of personal ambition. Galt's satire has the warm colours of the Flemish masters; so does Burns's portrait of Holy Willie, whose roseate face and watery eye we might imagine peeping over a guttering candle flame.
And send the godly in a pet to prayâ
Pope
A
RGUMENT
Holy Willie was a rather oldish bachelor Elder in the parish of Mauchline, and much and justly famed for that polemical chattering which ends in tippling Orthodoxy, and for that Spiritualized Bawdry which refines to Liquorish Devotion.âIn a Sessional process with a gentleman in Mauchline, a Mr Gavin Hamilton, Holy Willie, and his priest, father Auld, after full hearing in the Presbytry of Ayr, came off but second best; owing partly to the oratorical powers of Mr Robert Aiken, Mr Hamilton's Counsel; but chiefly to Mr Hamilton's being one of the most irreproachable and truly respectable characters in the country.âOn losing his Process, the Muse overheard him at his devotions as followsâ
O Thou that in the heavens does dwell!
Wha, as it pleases best Thysel,
Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell,
A' for Thy glory!
And no for ony gude or ill
They've done before Thee.â
I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
When thousands Thou has left in night,
That I am here before Thy sight,
For gifts and grace,
A burning and a shining light
To a' this place.â
What was I, or my generation,
That I should get such exaltation?
I, wha deserv'd most just damnation,
For broken laws
Sax thousand years ere my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause!
When from my mother's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plunged me deep in hell,
To gnash my gooms, and weep, and wail,
In burning lakes,
Where damned devils roar and yell
Chain'd to their stakes.â
Yet I am here, a chosen sample,
To shew Thy grace is great and ample:
I'm here, a pillar o' Thy temple
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a ruler and example
To a' Thy flock.â
O Lord Thou kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear,
And singin' there, and dancin' here,
Wi' great an' sma';
For I am keepet by Thy fear,
Free frae them a'.â
But yetâO Lordâconfess I mustâ
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust;
And sometimes too, in warldly trust
Vile Self gets in;
But Thou remembers we are dust,
Defil'd wi' sin.â
O LordâyestreenâThou kensâwi' Megâ
Thy pardon I sincerely beg!
O may't ne'er be a living plague,
To my dishonor!
And I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.â
Besides, I farther maun avow,
Wi' Leezie's lass, three timesâI trowâ
But Lord, that friday I was fou
When I cam near her;
Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true
Wad never steer her.â
Maybe Thou lets this fleshy thorn
Buffet Thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he o'er proud and high should turn,
That he's sae gifted;
If sae, Thy hand maun e'en be borne
Untill Thou lift it.â
Lord bless Thy Chosen in this place,
For here Thou has a chosen race:
But God, confound their stubborn face,
And blast their name,
Wha bring Thy rulers to disgrace
And open shame.â
Lord mind Gaun Hamilton's deserts!
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony taking arts
Wi' Great and Sma',
Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts
He steals awa.â
And when we chasten'd him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
And set the warld in a roar
O' laughin at us:
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail and potatoes.â
Lord hear my earnest cry and prayer
Against that Presbytry of Ayr!
Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare
Upon their heads!
Lord visit them, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds!
O Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken!
My very heart and flesh are quaking
To think how I sat, sweating, shaking,
And piss'd wi' dread,
While Auld wi' hingin lip gaed sneaking
And hid his head.
Lord, in Thy day o' vengeance try him!
Lord visit him that did employ him!
And pass not in Thy mercy by them,
Nor hear their prayer;
But for Thy people's sake destroy them,
And dinna spare!
But Lord, remember me and mine
Wi' mercies temporal and divine!
That I for grace and gear may shine,
Excell'd by nane!
And a' the glory shall be Thine!
A
MEN
! A
MEN
!
H
eresy is a model of resistance in the mind of a free man. That is perhaps why Burns admired Milton's Satan, his âmanly fortitude in supporting what cannot be remedied â in short, the wild broken fragments of a noble mind, exalted in ruins'. Burns was careless with the Kirk authorities, but good relations between literature and laughter must often depend on an author's willingness to endure the penalties of public disgrace.
Orthodox, Orthodox, who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience;
A heretic blast has been blawn i' the Westâ
That what is not Sense must be Nonsense, Orthodox,
That what is not Sense must be Nonsense.â
Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, ye should streek on a rack,
To strike Evildoers with terror;
To join F
AITH
and S
ENSE
upon any pretence
Was heretic, damnable error, &c.
Town of Ayr, Town of Ayr, it was rash, I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a brewing;
Provost John is still deaf to the Church's relief,
And Orator Bob is its ruin, &c.
D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child,
And your life like the new-driven snaw;
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan maun have ye,
For preaching that three's ane and twa, &c.
Calvin's Sons, Calvin's Sons, seize your spiritual gunsâ
Ammunition ye never can need;
Your H
EARTS
are the stuff will be P
OWDER
enough,
And your S
CULLS
are a storehouse o' L
EAD
, &c.
Rumble John, Rumble John, mount the steps with a groan,
Cry, the B
OOK
is with heresy cramm'd;
Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle,
And roar ev'ry note o' the D
AMN'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 P
ACK
ye'll soon lead,
For P
UPPIES
like you there's but few, &c.
Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, are ye herding the P
ENNIE
,
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 âliberty'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 B
OOK
,
And the B
OOK
nought the waur, let me tell ye:
Ye're rich and look big, but lay by hat and wigâ
And ye'll hae a C
ALF'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,â
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 K
IRK
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 C
LERK
:
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.â
W
ith 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.
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.â
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 G
ALSTON
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 visageâwither'd, lang an' thin,
An' sour as onie slaes:
The
third
cam up, hap-step-an'-loup,
As light as onie lambie,â
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,
As soon as e'er she saw me,
Fu' kind that day.
Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, âSweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonie face,
But yet I canna name ye.â'
Quo' she, an' laughan as she spak,
An' taks me by the hands,
âYe, for my sake, hae gien the feck
Of a' the
ten commands
A screed some day.
âMy name is F
UN
âyour cronie dear,
The nearest friend ye hae;
An' this is S
UPERSTITION
here,
An' that's H
YPOCRISY
:
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, âWith 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!
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 S
OCRATES
or A
NTONINE
,
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 C
OMMON
-S
ENSE
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 âSauls 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,
O' Sinners and o' Lasses!
Their hearts o' stane, gin night are gane
As saft as ony flesh is.
There's some are fou o'
love divine
;
There's some are fou o'
brandy
;
An' monie jobs that day begin,
May end in
Houghmagandie
Some ither day.
