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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

  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 shuene
          Be up the gate,
  Filled fu' wi' clavers about sin
          An' man's estate.


    XVII

  The tuenes are up--_French_, to be shuere,
  The faithfue' _French_, an' twa-three mair;
  The auld prezentor, hoastin' sair,
          Wales out the portions,
  An' yirks the tuene 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

