A Lowden Sabbath Morn

Robert Louis Stevenson

A Lowden Sabbath Morn

IThe clinkum-clank o' SabbathbellsNoo to the hoastin' rookeryswells,Noo faintin' laigh in shady dells,Sounds far an' near,An' through the simmer kintrytells Its tale o' cheer.IIAn' 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.IIIHe, 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 againWi' painfü' pleesure.IVThe steerin' mither strang afitNoo shoos the bairnies but a bit;Noo cries them ben, their SindayshüitTo scart upon them,Or sweeties in their pouch to pit,Wi' blessin's on them.VThe lasses, clean frae tap to taes,Are busked in crunklin'underclaes;The gartened hose, the weel-filledstays,The nakit shift,A' bleached on bonny greensfordaysAn' white's the drift.VIAn' noo to face the kirkward mile:The guidman's hat o' dacent style,The blackit shoon, we noo maunfyleAs white's the miller:A waefü' peety tae, to spileThe warth o' siller.VIIOur Marg'et, aye sae keen tocrack,Douce-stappin' in the stourytrack,Her emeralt goun a' kiltit backFrae snawy coats,White-ankled, leads the kirkwardpackWi' Dauvit Groats.VIIIA thocht ahint, in runkled breeks,

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