The Mysteries of All Nations Part 11

Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof From the poor girl by magic of their bright, The while it did unthread the horrid woof Of the late darkened time--the murd'rous spite Of pride and avarice--the dark pine roof In the forest--and the sodden turfed dell, When, without any word, from stabs it fell.

Saying moreover, 'Isabel, my sweet!

Red whortle-berries droop above my head, And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet, Around me beeches and high chesnuts shed Their leaves and p.r.i.c.kly nuts; a sheep-fold bleat Comes from beyond the river to my bed: Go shed one tear upon my heather-bloom, And it shall comfort me within the tomb.

'I am a shadow now, alas! alas!

Upon the skirts of human nature dwelling Alone: I chaunt alone the holy ma.s.s, While little sounds of life around me knelling, And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pa.s.s, And many a chapel bell the hour is telling, Paining me through: these sounds grow strange to me, And thou art distant in humanity.'"

Let us now see what Burns, the never-to-be-forgotten Scottish poet, says in his _Address to the Deil_ and _Tam o' Shanter_. In his own felicitous way he brings out the belief the ancient inhabitants had of visible devils, water-kelpies, s.p.u.n.kies, witches, charms, spells, and many other forms of superst.i.tion.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

"O thou! whatever t.i.tle suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches.

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor d.a.m.ned bodies be; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, E'en to a deil, To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel?

Great is thy pow'r, and great thy fame; Far kend and noted is thy name: An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, Thou travels far; An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles ranging like a roarin' lion For prey, a' holes and corners tryin'; Whyles on the strong-winged tempest flyin', Tirling the kirks; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend grannie say, In lanely glens you like to stray; Or where auld ruined castles grey Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my grannie summon To say her prayers, douce honest woman!

Aft yont the d.y.k.e she's heard you b.u.mmin'

Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin', thro' the boortrees comin', Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, Wi' you, mysel', I got a fright, Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight, Wi' waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristled hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick--quaick-- Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd like a drake, On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags, Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs, and dizzy crags, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; For oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en By witching skill; An' dawtet, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen As yell's the bill.

Then mystic knots mak great abuse, On young guidman, fond, keen, and crouse, When the best wark-lume i' the house, By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit.

When thaws dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin' icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction, An' 'nighted trav'llers are allured To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing s.p.u.n.kies Decoy the wight that late and drunk is; The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some c.o.c.k or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell, The youngest brother ye wad whip Aff straught to h.e.l.l!

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yaird, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' a' the soul of love they shared, The raptured hour, Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird In shady bower!

Then you, ye auld, sneck-drawing dog!

Ye came to Paradise _incog._, An' played on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa'!) An' gied the infant world a shog, 'Maist ruined a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds and reest.i.t gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uz Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him in your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs and blotches did him gall Wi' bitter claw, An' lowsed his ill-tongued wicked scaw, Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehea.r.s.e, Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin'

A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', Some luckless hour will send him linkin'

To your black pit; But faith, he'll turn a corner, jinkin', And cheat you yet.

But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben!

O wad ye tak a thought and men'!

Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken-- Still hae a stake-- I'm wae to think upon yon den, Even for your sake!"

TAM O' SHANTER.

"When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, As market days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin' fou an' unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, an' styles, That lie between us and our hame, Where sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter; (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a toun surpa.s.ses, For honest men and bonny la.s.ses.)

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!

She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, bl.u.s.tering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October Ae market-day thou was na sober; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the L--d's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.

She prophesy'd that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale: Ae market night Tam had got planted unco right; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely: And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither.

The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; And aye the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious; The souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy; As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread-- You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed!

Or like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white--then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form, Evanis.h.i.+ng amid the storm.-- Nae man can tether time nor tide: The hour approaches Tam maun ride-- That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in, And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattlin' showers rose on the blast: The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd; That night a child might understand The deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg-- A better never lifted leg-- Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was 'cross the foord, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drucken Charlie brak's neck bane; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.-- Before him Doon pours all his floods!

The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll; When glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!

What dangers thou canst make us scorn!

Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil.-- The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.

But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillon brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels Put life and mettle in their heels.

A winnock-bunker in the east, There sat auld Nick in shape o' beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge: He screw'd his pipes and gart them skirl Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.

Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantrip sleight, Each in its cauld hand held a light, By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns, A thief, new cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape: Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter which a babe had strangled; A knife a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft, The grey hairs yet stack to the heft Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'

Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark And linket at it in her sark!