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A Lowden Sabbath Morn

Роберт Льюис Стивенсон
A Lowden Sabbath Morn

Полная версия

 
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,
A' spiled wi' lyin' by for weeks,
The guidman follows closs, an'
cleiks
The sonsie missis;
His sarious face at aince bespeaks
The day that this is.
 
IX
 
And aye an' while we nearer draw
To whaur the kirkton lies alaw,
Mair neebours, comin' saft an'
slaw
Frae here an' there,
The thicker thrang the gate, an'
caw
The stour in air.
 
X
 
But hark! the bells frae nearer
clang;
To rowst the slaw, their sides
they bang;
An' see! black coats a'ready
thrang
The green kirkyaird;
And at the yett, the chestnuts
spang
That brocht the laird.
 
XI
 
The solemn elders at the plate
Stand drinkin' deep the pride
o' state:
The practised hands as gash
an' great
As Lords o' Session;
The later named, a wee thing blate
 
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