A Lowden Sabbath Morn   By: Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

BY

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

ILLUSTRATED

BY

A. S. BOYD

[Illustration]

A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN

[Illustration: THE PRAYER p. 16]

A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

ILLUSTRATED BY A. S. BOYD

& PUBLISHED AT LONDON BY CHATTO & WINDUS MCMIX

First Illustrated Edition published 1898, and a Second Impression in the same year.

New Edition in 1907; and with Coloured Frontispiece in 1909.

Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh

TO

THE MEMORY OF

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

BY

THE ILLUSTRATOR

A Lowden Sabbath Morn

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' painfü' pleesure.

IV

The steerin' mither strang afit Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit; Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shüit 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 noo maun fyle As white's the miller: A waefü' 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 missis; 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 wag 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