Whene'er to drink you are inclined,
Or cutty sarks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty Observation;
And secret hung, with poisoned crust,
The dirk of Defamation:
A mask that like the gorget showed,
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,
And snuff the caller air.
The rising sun owre Galston muirs,
Wi' glorious light was glintin';
The hares were hirplin' down the furs;
The laverocks they were chantin'
Fu' sweet that day.
As lightsomely I glowred abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin' 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 appeared like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes;
Their visage withered, lang, an' thin,
An' sour as ony slaes:
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, As light as ony 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 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
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';
ye '11 go there, yon runkled 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 wearie body,
In droves that day.
Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith,
Gaed hoddin' by their cotters;
There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith,
Are springin' o'er the gutters,
The lasses, skelpin' barefit, thrang,
In silks an' scarlets glitter;
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang,
An' farls baked wi' butter,
Fu' crump that day.
When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,
A greedy glower Black Bonnet throws,
An' we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show,
On every side they're gatherin',
Some carrying dales, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy blethrin',
Here stands a shed to fend the showers,
An' screen our countra gentry,
There racer Jess, an' twa-three whores,
Are blinkin' at the entry.
Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades,
Wi' heaving breast and bare neck,
An' there a batch of wabster lads,
Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock,
For fun this day.
Here some are thinkin' on their sins,
An' some upo' their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyled his shins,
Anither sighs an' prays:
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi' screwed-up grace-proud faces;
On that a set o' chaps at watch,
Thrang winkin' 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 clinkin' down beside him!
Wi' arm reposed on the chair-back,
He sweetly does compose him;
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
An's loof upon her bosom,
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' wi' thumpin'!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
He's stampin' an' he 's jumpin'!
His lengthened chin, his turned-up snout,
His eldritch squeel and gestures,
O how they fire the heart devout,
Like cantharidian plaisters,
On sic a day!
But hark! the tent has changed 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
What signifies his barren shine
Of moral powers and 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 poisoned 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 viewed it,
While Common Sense has ta'en the road,
An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,
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