The Canongate Burns. Robert Burns

      On sic a day! such

      But hark! the tent has chang’d its voice;

      There’s peace an’ rest nae langer; no longer

      120 For a’ the real judges rise,

      They canna sit for anger: cannot

      Smith opens out his cauld harangues, cold

      On practice and on morals;

      An’ aff the godly pour in thrangs, off, groups

      125 To gie the jars an’ barrels give

      A lift that day. to drink

      What signifies his barren shine,

      Of moral pow’rs an’ reason;

      His English style, an’ gesture fine

      130 Are a’ clean out o’ season.

      Like SOCRATES or ANTONINE,

      Or some auld pagan heathen, old

      The moral man he does define,

      But ne’er a word o’ faith in

      135 That’s right that day.

      In guid time comes an antidote good

      Against sic poison’d nostrum; such, preaching

      For Peebles, frae the water-fit, from, mouth of the river

      Ascends the holy rostrum:

      140 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 Cowgate1

      Fast, fast that day.

      145 Wee Miller niest, the Guard relieves, next

      An’ Orthodoxy raibles, recites by rote

      Tho’ in his heart he weel believes, well

      An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables: old

      But faith! the birkie wants a Manse: fellow

      150 So, cannilie he hums them; carefully he humbugs

      Altho’ his carnal Wit an’ Sense

      Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes him almost half-wise

      At times that day.

      Now butt an’ ben the Change-house fills, every corner of the Ale House

      155 Wi’ yill-caup Commentators: ale cup

      Here’s crying out for bakes an’ gills, biscuits

      An’ there the pint-stowp clatters; pint-jug slams

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

      Wi’ Logic an’ wi’ Scripture,

      160 They raise a din, that, in the end noise

      Is like to breed a rupture

      O’ wrath that day.

      Leeze me on Drink! it gies us mair my blessings, gives, more

      Than either School or Colledge;

      165 It kindles Wit, it waukens Lear, wakens learning

      It pangs us fou o’ Knowledge: crams, full

      Be’t whisky-gill or penny wheep, small beer costing a penny

      Or onie stronger potion, any

      It never fails, on drinkin deep,

      170 To kittle up our notion, enliven spirits

      By night or day.

      The lads an’ lasses, blythely bent

      To mind baith saul an’ body, both soul

      Sit round the table, weel content, well

      175 An’ steer about the Toddy: stir

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

      They’re makin observations;

      While some are cozie i’ the neuk, cosy, corner

      An’ formin assignations

      180 To meet some day.

      But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts, own, sounds

      Till a’ the hills are rairan, roaring back the echo

      And echoes back return the shouts;

      Black Russell is na spairan: not sparing

      185 His piercin words, like Highlan’ swords,

      Divide the joints an’ marrow;

      His talk o’ Hell, whare devils dwell, where

Our vera ‘Sauls does harrow’2 very souls

      Wi’ fright that day.

      190 A vast, unbottom’d, boundless Pit,

      Fill’d fou o’ lowan brunstane, full, flaming brimstone

      Whase ragin flame, an’ scorchin heat, whose

      Wad melt the hardest whun-stane! would, whinstone

      The half-asleep start up wi’ fear,

      195 An’ think they hear it roaran; roaring

      When presently it does appear,

      ’Twas but some neebor snoran neighbour, snoring

      Asleep that day.

      ’Twad be owre lang a tale to tell, over long

      200 How monie stories past; many

      An’ how they crouded to the yill, crowded, ale

      When they were a’ dismist;

      How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups, went, wooden jugs, cups

      Amang the furms an’ benches; among, a row of seats

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

      Was dealt about in lunches,

      An’ dawds that day. large pieces

      In comes a gausie, gash Guidwife, jolly, smart, good-

      An’ sits down by the fire,

      210 Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife; then, cheese

      The lasses they are shyer:

      The auld Guidmen, about the grace, old, good-

      Frae side to side they bother; from

      Till some ane by his bonnet lays, one, cap

      215 An’ gies them’t, like a tether, gives, rope

      Fu’ lang that day. long

      Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass, Alas!, no

      Or lasses that hae naething! have nothing

      Sma’ need has he to say a grace,

      220 Or melvie his braw claithing! dirty with meal, fine clothes

      O Wives, be mindfu’, ance yoursel, once

      How bonie lads ye wanted; handsome

      An’ dinna for a kebbuck-heel do not, hard cheeese