THE HOLY FAIR.* A robe of seeming truth and trust And secret hung, with poison'd crust, A mask that like the gorget show'd, I. Hypocrisy à-la-mode. UPON a simmer Sunday morn, The rising sun owre Galston muirs, Fu' sweet that day. II. As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, To see a scene sae gay, Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, The third, that gaed a-wee-a-back, Was in the fashion shining, Fu' gay that day. Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a sacramental occasion. III. The twa appear'd like sisters twin, The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, As soon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day. IV. Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, Sweet lass, Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak, 'Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck "Of a' the ten commands 'A screed some day. V. My name is Fun-your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae; An' this is Superstition here, 'An' that's Hypocrisy. 'I'm gaun to ** Holy Fair, 'To spend an hour in daffin: 'Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, 'We will get famous laughin At them this day.' VI. Quoth I, With a' my heart, I'll do't; 'I'll get my Sunday's sark on, For roads were clad; frae side to side, In droves that day. VII. Here farmers gash, in ridin graith There, swankies, young, in braw braid-claith In silks an' scarlets glitter; Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, An' farls bak'd wi' butter Fu' crump that day. VIII. When by the plate we set our nose, A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, Some carrying dales, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy blethrin Right loud that day. IX. Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, -ck For fun this day. X. Here some are thinkin on their sins, Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, On this hand sits a chosen swatch, To chairs that day. XI. O happy is that man an' blest! Nae wonder that it pride him! Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom, Unken'd that day. XII. Now a' the congregation o'er For ******* speels the holy door, Wi' fright that day. XIII. Hear how he clears the points o' faith Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd up snout, On sic a day! XIV. But hark! the tent has chang’d its voice ; There's peace an' rest nae langer : For a' the real judges rise, They canna sit for anger. ***** opens out his cauld harangues, On practice and on morals; An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, A lift that day. |