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Robert Burns Reading: The Holy Fair

I'm going through and reading a Robert Burns poem a day from one of the books in my collection. A bit of a journey and a personal project. Here is The Holy Fair (With Introduction). A robe of seeming truth and trust Hid crafty Observation; And secret hung, with poison'd crust, The dirk of Defamation: A mask that like the gorget show'd, Dye-varying on the pigeon; And for a mantle large and broad, He wrapt him in Religion. ---Hypocrisy A-La-Mode THE HOLY FAIAR Upon a simmer Sunday morn When Nature's face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, An' snuff the caller air. The rising sun owre Galston muirs Wi' glorious light was glintin; The hares were hirplin down the furrs, The lav'rocks they were chantin Fu' sweet that day. As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, To see a scene sae gay, Three hizzies, early at the road, Cam skelpin up the way. Twa had manteeles o" dolefu' black, But ane wi' lyart lining; The third, that gaed a wee a-back, Was in the fashion shining Fu' gay that day. The twa appear'd like sisters twin, In feature, form, an' claes; Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin, An' sour as only slaes: The third cam up, hap-stap-an'-lowp, As light as ony lambie, An' wi'a curchie low did stoop, As soon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day. Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me; I'm sure I've seen that bonie face But yet I canna name ye." Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak, An' taks me by the han's, "Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck Of a' the ten comman's A screed some day." "My name is Fun-your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae; An' this is Superstitution here, An' that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaun to Mauchline 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." Quoth I, "Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't; I'll get my Sunday's sark on, An' meet you on the holy spot; Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin!" Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, An' soon I made me ready; For roads were clad, frae side to side, Wi' mony a weary body In droves that day. Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, Gaed hoddin by their cotters; There swankies young, in braw braid-claith, Are springing owre the gutters. The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, In silks an' scarlets glitter; Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang, An' farls, bak'd wi' butter, Fu' crump that day. When by the plate we set our nose, Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws, An' we maun draw our tippence. Then in we go to see the show: On ev'ry side they're gath'rin; Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy bleth'rin Right loud that day. Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, An' screen our countra gentry; There Racer Jess, an' twa-three whores, Are blinkin at the entry. Here sits a raw o' tittlin jads, Wi' heaving breast an' bare neck; An' there a batch o' wabster lads, Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock, For fun this day. Here, some are thinkin on their sins, An' some upo' their claes; Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, Anither sighs an' prays: On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi' screwed-up, grace-proud faces; On that a set o' chaps, at watch, Thrang winkin on the lasses To chairs that day. O happy is that man, an' blest! Nae wonder that it pride him! Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, Comes clinkin down beside him! Wi' arms repos'd on the chair back, He sweetly does compose him; Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom, Unkend that day. Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation; For Moodie speels the holy door, Wi' tidings o' damnation: Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 'Mang sons o' God present him, The vera sight o' Moodie's face, To 's ain het hame had sent him Wi' fright that day. Hear how he clears the point o' faith Wi' rattlin and wi' thumpin! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, He's stampin, an' he's jumpin! His lengthen'd chin, his turned-up snout, His eldritch squeel an' gestures, O how they fire the heart devout, Like cantharidian plaisters On sic a day! 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, Smith opens out his cauld harangues, On practice and on morals; An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, To gie the jars an' barrels A lift that day. What signifies his barren shine, Of moral powers an' reason? His English style, an' gesture fine Are a' clean out o' season. Like Socrates or Antonine, Or some auld pagan heathen, The moral man he does define, But ne'er a word o' faith in That's right that day. In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison'd nostrum; For Peebles, frae the water-fit, Ascends the holy rostrum: See, up he's got, the word o' God, An' meek an' mim has view'd it, While Common-sense has taen the road, An' aff, an' up the Cowgate Fast, fast that day. Note: Poem is too long for Youtube's summary. Please find the rest of the poem here: www.robertburns.org/works/68.shtml