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  A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN

  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' painfue' pleesure.


      IV

  The steerin' mither strang afit
  Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit;
  Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shueit
          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 waefue' 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