The Beauties of Burn's Poems/The Holy Fair

by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

For other versions of this work, see The Holy Fair.

THE HOLY FAIR^[1].

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 she gorget show'd,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him on Religion.
Hypocrisy-a-la-mode.

 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn,
 When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
 And snuff the cauler air:
The rising sun o'er Galston-muirs,
 Wi' glorious light was glintin;
The hares were hirpling down the furs,
 The lav'rocks they were chantin
Fu'sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,
 To see a scene so gay,
Three hizies, early at the road,
 Came skelpin up the way;
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
 But ane wi' lyort lining;
The third, that gaed a-wee a-back,
 Was in the fashion shining,
Fu' gay that day.

The twa appear'd like sisters twiu,
 In feature, form, and claes!
Their visage, wither'd, lang and thin,
 And sour as ony slaes;
The third cam up, hap-stap-and-loup,
 As light as ony lambie,
And wi' a kurtchie low did stoop,
 As soon as e'er she saw me,
Fu' kind that day.

Wi' bannet aff, quoth I, 'Sweet lass,
 'I think ye seen to ken me;
'I'm sure I've seen that bonny face,
 'But yet I canna name ye.'
Quo' she, and laughing as she spak,
 And taks me by the hands,
'Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feek
 'Of a' the ten commands
'A screed some day.

'My name is Fun—your cronie dear,
 'The nearest friend ye hae;
'And this is Superstition here,
 'And that's Hypocrisy.
'I'm gaun to ——— Holy Fair,
 'To spend an hour in daffin:
'Gin ye'll gae there, yon runkl'd pair,
 'We will get famous laughin
At them this day.

Quoth I, 'with all my heart I'll do't;
 'I'll get my Sunday's sark on,
'And meet you on the holy spot:
 'Faith we'se hae fine remarkin!'
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,
 And 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 riding graith,
 Gaed hodden by their cotters;
There, swankies young, in braw braid claith,
 Are springin' o'er the gutters:
The lasses, skelpin' barefoot, thrang,
 In silks and scarlet glitter;
Wi' sweet-milk cheese in mony a whang,
 And 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,
 And we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show:
 On ev'ry side they're gatherin';
Some carrying dales, some chairs and stools,
 And some are busy blethrin'
Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the showers,
 And screen our countra gentry,
There Racer Jess, and twa-three wh—s,
 Are blinkin' at the entry.
Here sits a raw of tittlin jades,
 Wi' heaving breast and bare neck;
And there a batch o' Wabster lads,
 Blackguardin frae K———ck
For fun this day.

Here some are thinking on their sins,
 And some upon their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins
 Anither sighs and prays:
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
 Wi' screw'd-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 and blest,
 Nae wonder than it pride him,
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best,
 Comes clinkin down beside him.
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back,
 He sweetly does compose him,
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
 And's loof's upon her bosom
Unkend that day.

Now a' the congregation o'er
 Is silent expectation,
For ——— speels the holy door,
 Wi' tidings o' d—m—n—n!
Shou'd Hornie, as in ancient days,
 'Mang sons of 'G— present him,
The very sight o' ———'s face
 To's ain het hame had sent him
Wi' fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o' faith,
 Wi' rattlin and wi' thumpin!
Now meekly calm,—now mild in wrath,
 He's stampin and he's jumpin!
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout
 His eldritch squeel and gestures,
Oh! how they fire the heart devout,
 Like cantharidian plaisters,
On sic a day.

But hark! the tent hes chang'd its voice,
 There's peace and rest nae langer;

For a' the real judges rise,
 They canna sit for anger.
——— opens out his cauld harangues,
 On practice and on morals;
And aff the godly pour in thrangs,
 To gie the jars and barrels
A lift that day.

What signifies his barren shine,
 Of moral powers and reason?
His English style and gestures 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 good time comes an antidote
 Against sic poison'd nostram;
For ———, frae the water-fit,
 Ascends the holy rostrum:
See, up he's got the word o' G—,
 And meek and mim has view'd it,
While Common-Sense has taen the road,
 And aff, and up the Cowgate^[2],
Fast, fast, that day.

Wee ———, neist, the guard relieves,
 And Orthodoxy raibles,
Tho' in his heart he weel believes,
 And thinks it auld wives' fables:
But faith the birkie wants a Manse,
 So cannily he hums them;
Altho' his carnal wit and sense
 Like hafflins-way o'ercomes him
At times that day.

Now butt and ben the change-louse fills,
 Wi' yill-cap commentators:
Here's crying out for bakes and gills,
 And there the pint-stoup clatters;
While thick and thrang, and loud and lang,
 Wi Logic, and wi' Scripture,
They raise a din that, in the end,
 Is like to breed a rupture
O' wrath that day.

Leeze me on Drink! it gies us mair
 Than either School or College;
It kindles Wit, it waukens Lair,
 It pangs us fu' o' Knowledge:
Be't whisky-gill, or penny-wheep,
 Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, on drinking deep,
 To kittle up our notion
By night or day.

The lads and lasses, blythely bent
 To mind baith saul and body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
 And steer about the toddy.
On this ane's dress, and that ane's leuk,
 They're making observations;
While some are cozie in the neuk,
 And forming assignations
To meet some day.

But now the L—d's ain trumpet touts,
 Till all the hills are rairin,
And echoes back return the shouts;
 Black ——— is na spairin;
His piercing words, like Highland swords,
 Divide the joints and marrow;
His talk o' hell whare devils dwell,
 Our very sauls do harrow^[3],
—i' fright that day!

A vast unbottom'd, boundless pit,
 Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane,
Wha's ragin flame, and scorchin heat
 Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
The ha'f asleep start up wi' fear,
 And think they hear it roarin!
When presently it does appear,
 'Twas but some neighbour snorin
Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,
 How mony stories past,
And how they crouded to the yill,
 When they were a' dismist;
How drink gad round in cogs and caups,
 Amang the furms and benches,
And cheese and bread, frae women's laps,
 Was dealt about in lunches,
And dauds that day.

In comes a gaucie, gash gudewife,
 And sits down by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbeck and her knife;
 The lasses they are shyer.
The auld gudemen, about the grace,
 Frae side to side they bother,
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
 And gies them't like a tether,
Fu' lang that day..

Waesnak's for him that gets nae lass!
 Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma' need has he to say a grace,
 Or melvie his braw claithing.
O wives be mindfu', ance yoursel,
 How bonnie lads ve wanted,
And dinna, for a kebbeck-heel,
 Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day.

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow,
 Begins to jow and croon;
Some stagger hame the best they dow,
 Some wait the afternoon.
At slaps the billies halt a blink,
 Till lasses slip their shoon,
Wi' faith and hope, and love and drink,
 They're a' in famous tune
For crack that day.

How monie hearts this day converts,
 O' sinners and o' lasses!
Their hearts o' stane gin night are gane,
 As saft as ony flesh is:
There's some are fou o' love divine,
 There's some are fou o' brandy;
And monie jobs that day begin,
 May end in houghmagandie
Some ither day.

 

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1. Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a Sacramental Occasion.
2. A Street so called, which faces the Tent in ———
3. Shakespeare's Hamlet.