The Holy Fair
the holy fair 注释标题 “holy fair” is a on phrase in the west of scotland for a sacramental occasion.—r. b. a robe of seeming truth and trust hid crafty observation; a hung, with poison'd crust, the dirk of defamation: a mask that like the get show'd, dye-varying on the pigeon; and for a mantle large and broad, he t him in religion. hypocrisy a-la-mode upon a simmer sunday morn when nature's face is fair, i walked forth to view the , an' snuff the caller air. the rising sun alston muirs wi' glorious light was glintin; the hares were hirplin down the furrs, the lav'rocks they were tin fu' sweet that day. as lightsomely i glowr'd abroad, to see a se 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 tear'd like sisters twin, iure, 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' bo aff, h i, “sweet lass, i think ye seem to ken me; i'm sure i've seen that bonie face but yet i a 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 an's a screed some day.” “my name is fun—your ie dear, the friend ye hae; an' this is superstitution here, an' that's hypocrisy. i'm gaun to maue 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.” h i, “wi' a' my heart, i'll do't; i'll get my sunday's sark on, a 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-bohrows, 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' s our tra 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 wohat it pride him! whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, es kin down beside him! wi' arms repos'd on the chair back, he sweetly does pose him; which, by degrees, slips round her neck, an's loof upon her bosom, uhat day. now a' the gregation o'er is silent expectation; for moodie speels the holy door, wi' tidings o' damnation: should hornie, as in a days, 'mang sons o' god present him, the vera sight o' moodie's face, to 's ai 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 , his turned-up snout, his eldritch squeel aures, o how they fire the heart devout, like tharidian plaisters on sic a day! but hark! the tent has g'd its voice, there's pea' rest nae langer; for a' the real judges rise, they a sit fer, smith opens out his cauld harangues, on practid 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, aure fine are a' out o' season. like socrates or antonine, or some auld pagahen, the moral man he does define, but ne'er a word o' faith in that's right that day. in guid time es an antidote against sic poison'd nostrum; for peebles, frae the water-fit, asds the holy rostrum: see, up he's got, the word o' god, an' meek an' mim has view'd it, while on-sense has taen the road, an' aff, an' up the cowgate fast, fast that day. wee miller the guard relieves, an' orthodoxy raibles, tho' in his heart he weel believes, an' thinks it auld wives' fables: but faith! the birkie wants a manse, so, ilie he hums them; altho' his al wit an' sense like hafflins-wise o'eres him at times that day. now, butt ahe ge-house fills, wi' yill-caup entators; here 's out for bakes and gills, an' there the pint-stowp clatters; while thi' thrang, an' loud an' lang, wi' logi' 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 thaher school or college; it kindles wit, it waukens lear, it pangs us fou o' knowledge: be't whisky-gill or penny wheep, or ony stronger potion, it never fails, or drinkin deep, to kittle up our notion, by night or day. the lads an' lasses, blythely bent to mind baith saul an' body, sit round the table, weel tent, an' steer about the toddy: on this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, they're makin observations; while some are cozie i' the neuk, an' f assignations to meet some day. but now the lord's ain trumpet touts, till a' the hills are rairin, and echoes back return the shouts; black russell is na sparin: his pier words, like highlan' swords, divide the joints an' marrow; his talk o' hell, whare devils dwell, our vera “sauls does harrow” wi' fright that day! a vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane, whase raging flame, an' scorg heat, wad melt the hardest whun-stane! the half-asleep start up wi' fear, an' think they hear it roarin; whely it does appear, 'twas but some neibor snorin asleep that day. 'twad be owre lang a tale to tell, how mony stories past; an' how they crouded to the yill, when they were a' dismist; how drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, amang the furms an' benches; an' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, was dealt about in lunches an' dawds that day. in es a gawsie, gash guidwife, an' sits down by the fire, syne draws her kebbu' her knife; the lasses they are shyer: the auld guidmen, about the grace frae side to side they bother; till some ane by his bo lays, an' gies them't like a tether, fu' lang that day. waesucks! for him that gets nae lass, or lasses that hae hing! sma' need has he to say a grace, or melvie his braw claithing! o wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel' how bonie lads ye wanted; an' dinna for a kebbuck-heel let lasses be affronted on sic a day! now kumbell, wi' rattlin tow, begins to jow an' ; some swagger hame the best they dow, some wait the afternoon. at slaps the billies halt a blink, till lasses strip their shoon: wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, they're a' in famous tune for crack that day. how mos this day verts 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; an' mony jobs that day begin, may end in houghmagandie some ither day.