THE HOLY FAIR.* A robe of seeming truth and trust And secret hung, with poison'd crust, A mask that like the gorget show'd, HYPOCRISY A-LA-MODE. I.. UPON a simmer Sunday morn, The rising sun owre Galston muirs, The hares were hirplin down the furs, The lav'rocks they were chantin Fu' sweet that day. 11. * Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a sacramental occasion. II. As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, Three Hizzies, early at the road, Cam skelpin up the way; Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, Was in the fashion shining, Fu' gay that day. III. The twa appear'd like sisters twin, The third cam up, hap-step-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.. IV. Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, Sweet lass, 'I think ye seem to ken me; 'I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 'But yet I canna name ye.' r Quo' Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak, 'Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck " Of a' the ten commands A screed some day. ས. 'My name is Fun-your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae; • An' this is Superstition here, · An' that's Hypocrisy. 'I'm gaun to Mauchline 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.' VI. 6 Quoth I, With a' my heart, I'll do't; 'I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 'An' meet 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' monie a wearie body, In droves that day. VII. Here farmers gash, in ridin graith In silks an' scarlets glitter; Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, An' farls bak'd wi' butter, Fu' crump that day. VIII. When by the plate we set our nose, On ev'ry side they're gathrin, Some carrying dales, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy blethrin Right loud that day. IX. Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, Here Here sits a raw of tittlin jades, X. Here some are thinkin on their sins, On this hand sits a chosen swatch, To chairs that day. XI. O happy is that man an' blest! Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom, Unkenn'd that day. |