THE SCOTSMAN’S RETURN FROM ABROAD

IN A LETTER FROM MR. THOMSON TO MR. JOHNSTONE
In mony a foreign pairt I’ve been, An’ mony an unco ferlie seen, Since, Mr. Johnstone, you and I, Last walkit upon Cocklerye. Wi’ gleg, observant een, I pass’t By sea an’ land, through East an’ Wast, And still in ilka age an’ station Saw naething but abomination. In thir uncovenantit lands The gangrel Scot uplifts his hands At lack of a’ sectarian füsh’n, An’ cauld religious destitütion. He rins, puir man, frae place to place, Tries a’ their graceless means o’ grace, Preacher on preacher, kirk on kirk— This yin a stot an’ thon a stirk— A bletherin’ clan, no warth a preen. As bad as Smith of Aiberdeen! At last, across the weary faem, Frae far, outlandish pairts I came. On ilka side o’ me I fand Fresh tokens o’ my native land. Wi’ whatna joy I hailed them a’— The hill-taps standin’ raw by raw, The public-house, the Hielan’ birks, And a’ the bonny U.P. kirks! But maistly thee, the bluid o’ Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to John o’ Groats! The king o’ drinks, as I conceive it, Talisker, Isla, or Glenlivet! For after years wi’ a pockmantie Frae Zanzibar to Alicante, In mony a fash and sair affliction I gie’t as my sincere conviction— Of a’ their foreign tricks an’ pliskies, I maist abominate their whiskies. Nae doot, themsel’s, they ken it weel, An’ wi’ a hash o’ leemon peel, And ice an’ siccan filth, they ettle The stawsome kind o’ goo to settle Sic wersh apothecary’s broos wi’ As Scotsmen scorn to fyle their moo’s wi’. An’, man, I was a blithe hame-comer Whan first I syndit out my rummer. Ye should hae seen me then, wi’ care The less important pairts prepare; Syne, weel contentit wi’ it a’, Pour in the speerits wi’ a jaw! I didna drink, I didna speak,— I only snowkit up the reek. I was sae pleased therein to paidle, I sat an’ plowtered wi’ my ladle. An’ blithe was I, the morrow’s morn, To daunder through the stookit corn, And after a’ my strange mishanters Sit doun amang my ain dissenters An’, man, it was a joy to me The pu’pit an’ the pews to see, The pennies dirlin’ in the plate, The elders lookin’ on in state; An’ ’mang the first, as it befell, Wha should I see, sir, but yoursel’! I was, and I will no’ deny it, At the first gliff a hantle tryit To see yoursel’ in sic a station— It seemed a doubtfü’ dispensation. The feelin’ was a mere digression; For shüne I understood the session, An’ mindin’ Aiken an’ M’Neil, I wondered they had düne sae weel. I saw I had mysel’ to blame; For had I but remained at hame, Aiblins—though no ava’ deservin’ ’t— They micht hae named your humble servant. The kirk was filled, the door was steiked; Up to the pu’pit aince I keeked; I was mair pleased than I can tell— It was the minister himsel’! Proud, proud was I to see his face, After sae lang awa’ frae grace. Pleased as I was, I’m no’ denyin’ Some maitters were not edifyin’; For first I fand—an’ here was news!— Mere hymn-books cockin’ in the pews— A humanised abomination, Unfit for ony congregation. Syne, while I still was on the tenter, I scunnered at the new prezentor; I thocht him gesterin’ an’ cauld— A sair declension frae the auld. Syne, as though a’ the faith was wreckit, The prayer was not what I’d exspeckit. Himsel’, as it appeared to me, Was no’ the man he üsed to be. But just as I was growin’ vext He waled a maist judeecious text, An’, launchin’ into his prelections, Swoopt, wi’ a skirl, on a’ defections. O what a gale was on my speerit To hear the p’ints o’ doctrine clearit, And a’ the horrors o’ damnation Set furth wi’ faithfü’ ministration! Nae shauchlin’ testimony here— We were a’ damned, an’ that was clear. I owned, wi’ gratitude an’ wonder, He was a pleesure to sit under.

XIII
Late in the nicht in bed I lay, The winds were at their weary play, An’ tirlin’ wa’s an’ skirlin’ wae Through Heev’n they battered;— On-ding o’ hail, on-blaff o’ spray, The tempest blattered. The masoned house it dinled through; It dung the ship, it cowped the coo; The rankit aiks it overthrew, Had braved a’ weathers; The strang sea-gleds it took an’ blew Awa’ like feethers. The thrawes o’ fear on a’ were shed, An’ the hair rose, an’ slumber fled, An’ lichts were lit an’ prayers were said Through a’ the kintry; An’ the cauld terror clum in bed Wi’ a’ an’ sindry. To hear in the pit-mirk on hie The brangled collieshangie flie, The warl’, they thocht, wi’ land an’ sea, Itsel’ wad cowpit; An’ for auld airn, the smashed débris By God be rowpit. Meanwhile frae far Aldeboran To folks wi’ talescopes in han’, O’ ships that cowpit, winds that ran, Nae sign was seen, But the wee warl’ in sunshine span As bricht’s a preen. I, tae, by God’s especial grace, Dwall denty in a bieldy place, Wi’ hosened feet, wi’ shaven face, Wi’ dacent mainners: A grand example to the race O’ tautit sinners! The wind may blaw, the heathen rage, The deil may start on the rampage;— The sick in bed, the thief in cage— What’s a’ to me? Cosh in my house, a sober sage, I sit an’ see. An’ whiles the bluid spangs to my bree, To lie sae saft, to live sae free, While better men maun do an’ die In unco places. “Whaur’s God?” I cry, an’ “Whae is me To hae sic graces?” I mind the fecht the sailors keep, But fire or can’le, rest or sleep, In darkness an’ the muckle deep; An’ mind beside The herd that on the hills o’ sheep Has wandered wide. I mind me on the hoastin’ weans— The penny joes on causey-stanes— The auld folk wi’ the crazy banes, Baith auld an’ puir, That aye maun thole the winds an’ rains An’ labour sair. An’ whiles I’m kind o’ pleased a blink, An’ kind o’ fleyed forby, to think, For a’ my rowth o’ meat an’ drink An’ waste o’ crumb, I’ll mebbe have to thole wi’ skink In Kingdom Come. For God whan jowes the Judgment bell Wi’ His ain Hand, His Leevin’ Sel’, Sall ryve the guid (as Prophets tell) Frae them that had it; And in the reamin’ pat o’ Hell, The rich be scaddit. O Lord, if this indeed be sae, Let daw’ that sair an’ happy day! Again the warl’, grawn auld an’ grey, Up wi’ your aixe! An’ let the puir enjoy their play— I’ll thole my paiks.
XIV

MY CONSCIENCE!

Of a’ the ills that flesh can fear, The loss o’ frien’s, the lack o’ gear, A yowlin’ tyke, a glandered mear, A lassie’s nonsense— There’s just ae thing I canna bear, An’ that’s my conscience. Whan day (an’ a’ excüse) has gane, An’ wark is düne, and duty’s plain, An’ to my chalmer a’ my lane I creep apairt, My conscience! hoo the yammerin’ pain Stends to my heart! A’ day wi’ various ends in view, The hairsts o’ time I had to pu’, An’ made a hash wad staw a soo, Let be a man!— My conscience! whan my han’s were fu’, Whaur were ye than? An’ there were a’ the lures o’ life, There pleesure skirlin’ on the fife, There anger, wi’ the hotchin’ knife Ground shairp in Hell— My conscience!—you that’s like a wife!— Whaur was yoursel’? I ken it fine: just waitin’ here, To gar the evil waur appear, To clart the guid, confüse the clear, Misca’ the great, My conscience! an’ to raise a steer Whan a’s ower late. Sic-like, some tyke grawn auld and blind, Whan thieves brok’ through the gear to p’ind, Has lain his dozened length an’ grinned At the disaster; An’ the morn’s mornin’, wud’s the wind, Yokes on his master.