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A Lowden Sabbath Morn By: Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) |
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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 But noo the bell is ringin' in;
To tak their places, folk begin;
The minister himsel' will shüne
Be up the gate,
Filled fu' wi' clavers about sin
An' man's estate... Continue reading book >>
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