That rather staggered Frederic, to whom it had never occurred that his father might be admirable. Old Lawrie saw that he was a little taken aback and he scowled and went on:
“Come, come! Not ashamed of your father, are you, heh? My sons are, but then my sons are respectable. That’s what’s the matter with them, they’re respectable and safe. Safe’s a good word for a gag. You can bring your lips together on it hard.”
“I was at school in France,” replied Frederic with a flush of timidity under his paint. He had just come from the dress-rehearsal on the stage, the play being Still Waters Run Deep.
“If you like France,” said Old Lawrie, “you won’t like this cursed hole. You’ll die in it. I’ve never been to France myself, but I’ve read their books. They pull everything to bits with their brains. Nothing left. They’re a better lot than we are. Got no morals, but who has? We pretend to have ’em. They don’t. Know your Burns? It’s in print, so I see no reason why I shouldn’t speak it:
O Lord! yestreen, Thou ken, wi’ Meg—
Thy pardon I sincerely beg,
O may it ne’er be a livin’ plague
To my dishonour,
An’ I’ll ne’er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.
Maybe Thou lets the fleshly thorn
Beset thy servant e’en and morn,
Lest he owre high and proud should turn
’Cause he’s sae gifted:
If sae, Thy hand maun e’en be borne,
Until Thou lift it.
But, Lord, remember me and mine
Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine
That I for fear and grace may shine
Excell’d by nane,
An’ a’ the glory shall be Thine,
Amen, Amen.
Old Lawrie was a fine man as he declaimed the verses. His eyes flashed and his voice came big from his chest, and when he had done he turned to Frederic and said:
“That’s Burns, and out of Shakespeare there isna a healthier spirit in the world. Burns and Shakespeare—both of ’em poor men and straight from the earth, and ’ll give ye all the cultured dandies in the world for a farthing gift. So you’re playing at play-acting, young man? That’s what nine-tenths the world is for ever doing in its daily life. They ca’ me a disgusting old man, but they should hear what I ca’ them when my tongue’s loosed and my mind’s eyes seeing visions. I live in Hell, but I’ve a Heaven in my brain. . . . Your father’s a good man to go his own way with the dirty Lutherans and the filthy Puritans yelping at his heels. You’ll not be going in for the professional play-acting?”
“No,” said Frederic. “I sing.”
Old Lawrie clapped his old silk hat on his head, took his blackthorn stick in his hand and gave a shout of laughter. He patted Frederic on the shoulder, pursed his lips and hummed through them strangely and vaguely as though he were turning over a morsel of music on his tongue, and then he broke into verse and said:
O youth it is a pretty thing,
A wild rose in the bud.
But it must die with the passing Spring
All trampled in the mud.
We’ve heavy feet in our town,
Rough shod with iron bands.
Virginity goes toppling down
Befouled with loutish hands.
O Spring is smoked in our town,
And life’s a dirty scrum,
The angels weep to see God’s frown
And we make Hell to hum.