A Lowden Sabbath Morn
Robert Stevenson




Robert Louis Stevenson

A Lowden Sabbath Morn




I

		The clinkum-clank o' Sabbath
		bells
		Noo to the hoastin' rookery
		swells,
		Noo faintin' laigh in shady dells,
		Sounds far an' near,
		An' through the simmer kintry
		tells Its tale o' cheer.


II

		An' noo, to that melodious play,
		A' deidly awn the quiet sway —
		A' ken their solemn holiday,
		Bestial an' human,
		The singin' lintie on the brae,
		The restin' plou'man.


III

		He, mair than a' the lave o' men,
		His week completit joys to ken;
		Half-dressed, he daunders out an'
		in,
		Perplext wi' leisure;
		An' his raxt limbs he'll rax again
		Wi' painfü' pleesure.


IV

		The steerin' mither strang afit
		Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit;
		Noo cries them ben, their Sinday
		shüit
		To scart upon them,
		Or sweeties in their pouch to pit,
		Wi' blessin's on them.


V

		The lasses, clean frae tap to taes,
		Are busked in crunklin'
		underclaes;
		The gartened hose, the weel-filled
		stays,
		The nakit shift,
		A' bleached on bonny greens
		for
		days
		An' white's the drift.


VI

		An' noo to face the kirkward mile:
		The guidman's hat o' dacent style,
		The blackit shoon, we noo maun
		fyle
		As white's the miller:
		A waefü' peety tae, to spile
		The warth o' siller.


VII

		Our Marg'et, aye sae keen to
		crack,
		Douce-stappin' in the stoury
		track,
		Her emeralt goun a' kiltit back
		Frae snawy coats,
		White-ankled, leads the kirkward
		pack
		Wi' Dauvit Groats.


VIII

		A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks,




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