第15章 FOR RENEWAL OF JOY

WE are evil, O God, and help us to see it and amend. We are good, and help us to be better. Look down upon thy servants with a patient eye, even as Thou sendest sun and rain; look down, call upon the dry bones, quicken, enliven; recreate in us the soul of service, the spirit of peace; renew in us the sense of joy.

I

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.

II

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.

III

He, mair than a' the lave o' men, His week completit joys to ken;

Half-dressed, he daunders out an' in, Perplext wi' leisure;

An' his raxt limbs he'll rax again Wi' painfu' pleesure.

IV

The steerin' mither strang afit Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit;

Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shuit To scart upon them, Or sweeties in their pouch to pit, Wi' blessin's on them.

V

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.

VI

An' noo to face the kirkward mile The guidman's hat o' dacent style, The blackit shoon, we noon maun fyle As white's the miller:

A waefu' peety tae, to spile The warth o' siller.

VII

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.

VIII

A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks, A' spiled wi' lyin' by for weeks, The guidman follows closs, an' cleiks The sonsie misses;

His sarious face at aince bespeaks The day that this is.

IX

And aye an' while we nearer draw To whaur the kirkton lies alaw, Mair neebours, comin' saft an' slaw Frae here an' there, The thicker thrang the gate, an' caw The stour in air.

X

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.

XI

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.

XII

The prentit stanes that mark the deid, Wi' lengthened lip, the sarious read;

Syne way a moraleesin' heid, An then an' there Their hirplin' practice an' their creed Try hard to square.

XIII

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.

XIV

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.

XV

Thus, on the day o' solemn things, The bell that in the steeple swings To fauld a scaittered faim'ly rings Its walcome screed;

An' just a wee thing nearer brings The quick an' deid.

XVI

But noo the bell is ringin' in;

To tak their places, folk begin;

The minister himsel' will shune Be up the gate, Filled fu' wi' clavers about sin An' man's estate.

XVII

The tunes are up - FRENCH, to be shure, The faithfu' FRENCH, an' twa-three mair;

The auld prezentor, hoastin' sair, Wales out the portions, An' yirks the tune into the air Wi' queer contortions.

XVIII

Follows the prayer, the readin' next, An' than the fisslin' for the text -

The twa-three last to find it, vext But kind o' proud;

An' than the peppermints are raxed, An' southernwood.

XIX

For noo's the time whan pows are seen Nid-noddin' like a mandareen;

When tenty mithers stap a preen In sleepin' weans;

An' nearly half the parochine Forget their pains.

XX

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.

XXI

Himsel', meanwhile, frae whaur he cocks An' bobs belaw the soundin'-box, The treesures of his words unlocks Wi' prodigality, An' deals some unco dingin' knocks To infidality.

XXII

Wi' snappy 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.

XXIII

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.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

It may be guessed by some that I had a certain parish in my eye, and this makes it proper I should add a word of disclamation. In my time there have been two ministers in that parish. Of the first I have a special reason to speak well, even had there been any to think ill. The second I have often met in private and long (in the due phrase) "sat under" in his church, and neither here nor there have I heard an unkind or ugly word upon his lips. The preacher of the text had thus no original in that particular parish; but when I was a boy he might have been observed in many others; he was then (like the schoolmaster) abroad; and by recent advices, it would seem he has not yet entirely disappeared.