10 Best Famous Gills Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Gills poems. This is a select list of the best famous Gills poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Gills poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of gills poems.

• All Famous Gills Poems

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown 
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed 
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping 
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip 
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines, 
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap 
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons 
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings, 
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

 If the water were clear enough,
if the water were still,
but the water is not clear,
the water is not still,
you would see yourself,
slipped out of your skin,
nosing upstream,
slapping, thrashing,
tumbling
over the rocks
till you paint them
with your belly's blood:
Finned Ego,
yard of muscle that coils,
uncoils.
If the knowledge were given you,
but it is not given,
for the membrane is clouded
with self-deceptions
and the iridescent image swims
through a mirror that flows,
you would surprise yourself
in that other flesh
heavy with milt,
bruised, battering toward the dam
that lips the orgiastic pool.

Come. Bathe in these waters.
Increase and die.

If the power were granted you
to break out of your cells,
but the imagination fails
and the doors of the senses close
on the child within,
you would dare to be changed,
as you are changing now,
into the shape you dread
beyond the merely human.
A dry fire eats you.
Fat drips from your bones.
The flutes of your gills discolor.
You have become a ship for parasites.
The great clock of your life
is slowing down,
and the small clocks run wild.
For this you were born.
You have cried to the wind
and heard the wind's reply:
"I did not choose the way,
the way chose me."
You have tasted the fire on your tongue
till it is swollen black
with a prophetic joy:
"Burn with me!
The only music is time,
the only dance is love."

If the heart were pure enough,
but it is not pure,
you would admit
that nothing compels you
any more, nothing
at all abides,
but nostalgia and desire,
the two-way ladder
between heaven and hell.
On the threshold
of the last mystery,
at the brute absolute hour,
you have looked into the eyes
of your creature self,
which are glazed with madness,
and you say
he is not broken but endures,
limber and firm
in the state of his shining,
forever inheriting his salt kingdom,
from which he is banished
forever.

 I fish for words
to say what I fish for,
half-catch sometimes.

I have caught little pan fish flashing sunlight
(yellow perch, crappies, blue-gills),
lighthearted reeled them in,
filed them on stringers on the shore.
A nice mess, we called them,
and ate with our fingers, laughing.

Once, dreaming of fish in far-off waters,
I hooked a two-foot carp in Michigan,
on nylon line so fine
a fellow-fisher shook his head:
"He'll break it, sure; he'll roll on it and get away."
A quarter-hour it took to bring him in;
back-and-forth toward my net,
syllable by syllable I let him have his way
till he lay flopping on the grass—
beside no other, himself enough in size:
he fed the three of us (each differently)
new strategies of hook, leader, line, and rod.

Working well, I am a deep-water man,
a "Daredevil" silver wobbler
my lure for lake trout in midsummer.

Oh, I have tried the moon, thermometers—
the bait and time and place all by the rule—
fishing for the masterpiece,
the imperial muskellunge in Minnesota,
the peerless pike in Canada.
I have propped a well-thumbed book
against the butt of my favorite rod
and fished from my heart.

Yet, for my labors,
all I have to show
are tactics, lore—
so little I know
of that pea-sized brain I am casting for,
to think it could swim
with the phantom-words
that lure me to this shore.

 Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, 
On the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
With his fishing-line of cedar, 
Of the twisted bark of cedar, 
Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma, 
Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes, 
In his birch canoe exulting 
All alone went Hiawatha.
Through the clear, transparent water 
He could see the fishes swimming 
Far down in the depths below him; 
See the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 
Like a sunbeam in the water,
See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish, 
Like a spider on the bottom, 
On the white and sandy bottom.
At the stern sat Hiawatha, 
With his fishing-line of cedar; 
In his plumes the breeze of morning 
Played as in the hemlock branches; 
On the bows, with tail erected, 
Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo; 
In his fur the breeze of morning 
Played as in the prairie grasses.
On the white sand of the bottom 
Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma, 
Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes; 
Through his gills he breathed the water, 
With his fins he fanned and winnowed, 
With his tail he swept the sand-floor.
There he lay in all his armor; 
On each side a shield to guard him, 
Plates of bone upon his forehead, 
Down his sides and back and shoulders
Plates of bone with spines projecting 
Painted was he with his war-paints, 
Stripes of yellow, red, and azure, 
Spots of brown and spots of sable; 
And he lay there on the bottom, 
Fanning with his fins of purple, 
As above him Hiawatha 
In his birch canoe came sailing, 
With his fishing-line of cedar.
"Take my bait," cried Hiawatha, 
Dawn into the depths beneath him, 
"Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma! 
Come up from below the water, 
Let us see which is the stronger!" 
And he dropped his line of cedar 
Through the clear, transparent water, 
Waited vainly for an answer, 
Long sat waiting for an answer, 
And repeating loud and louder, 
"Take my bait, O King of Fishes!"
Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Fanning slowly in the water, 
Looking up at Hiawatha, 
Listening to his call and clamor, 
His unnecessary tumult, 
Till he wearied of the shouting; 
And he said to the Kenozha, 
To the pike, the Maskenozha, 
"Take the bait of this rude fellow, 
Break the line of Hiawatha!"
In his fingers Hiawatha 
Felt the loose line jerk and tighten, 
As he drew it in, it tugged so 
That the birch canoe stood endwise, 
Like a birch log in the water, 
With the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Perched and frisking on the summit.
Full of scorn was Hiawatha 
When he saw the fish rise upward, 
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Coming nearer, nearer to him, 
And he shouted through the water, 
"Esa! esa! shame upon you! 
You are but the pike, Kenozha, 
You are not the fish I wanted, 
You are not the King of Fishes!"
Reeling downward to the bottom 
Sank the pike in great confusion, 
And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma, 
Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
To the bream, with scales of crimson, 
"Take the bait of this great boaster, 
Break the line of Hiawatha!"
Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming, 
Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
Seized the line of Hiawatha, 
Swung with all his weight upon it, 
Made a whirlpool in the water, 
Whirled the birch canoe in circles, 
Round and round in gurgling eddies, 
Till the circles in the water 
Reached the far-off sandy beaches, 
Till the water-flags and rushes 
Nodded on the distant margins.
But when Hiawatha saw him 
Slowly rising through the water, 
Lifting up his disk refulgent, 
Loud he shouted in derision, 
"Esa! esa! shame upon you! 
You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
You are not the fish I wanted, 
You are not the King of Fishes!"
Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming, 
Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Heard the shout of Hiawatha,
Heard his challenge of defiance, 
The unnecessary tumult, 
Ringing far across the water.
From the white sand of the bottom 
Up he rose with angry gesture, 
Quivering in each nerve and fibre, 
Clashing all his plates of armor, 
Gleaming bright with all his war-paint; 
In his wrath he darted upward, 
Flashing leaped into the sunshine, 
Opened his great jaws, and swallowed 
Both canoe and Hiawatha.
Down into that darksome cavern 
Plunged the headlong Hiawatha, 
As a log on some black river 
Shoots and plunges down the rapids, 
Found himself in utter darkness, 
Groped about in helpless wonder, 
Till he felt a great heart beating, 
Throbbing in that utter darkness.
And he smote it in his anger, 
With his fist, the heart of Nahma, 
Felt the mighty King of Fishes 
Shudder through each nerve and fibre, 
Heard the water gurgle round him 
As he leaped and staggered through it, 
Sick at heart, and faint and weary.
Crosswise then did Hiawatha 
Drag his birch-canoe for safety, 
Lest from out the jaws of Nahma, 
In the turmoil and confusion, 
Forth he might be hurled and perish. 
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Frisked and chatted very gayly, 
Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha 
Till the labor was completed.
Then said Hiawatha to him, 
"O my little friend, the squirrel,
Bravely have you toiled to help me; 
Take the thanks of Hiawatha, 
And the name which now he gives you; 
For hereafter and forever 
Boys shall call you Adjidaumo, 
Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!"
And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Gasped and quivered in the water, 
Then was still, and drifted landward 
Till he grated on the pebbles, 
Till the listening Hiawatha 
Heard him grate upon the margin, 
Felt him strand upon the pebbles, 
Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes, 
Lay there dead upon the margin.
Then he heard a clang and flapping, 
As of many wings assembling, 
Heard a screaming and confusion, 
As of birds of prey contending, 
Saw a gleam of light above him, 
Shining through the ribs of Nahma, 
Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls, 
Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering, 
Gazing at him through the opening, 
Heard them saying to each other, 
"'T is our brother, Hiawatha!"
And he shouted from below them, 
Cried exulting from the caverns: 
"O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers! 
I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma; 
Make the rifts a little larger, 
With your claws the openings widen, 
Set me free from this dark prison, 
And henceforward and forever 
Men shall speak of your achievements, 
Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, 
Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!"
And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls
Toiled with beak and claws together, 
Made the rifts and openings wider 
In the mighty ribs of Nahma, 
And from peril and from prison, 
From the body of the sturgeon, 
From the peril of the water, 
They released my Hiawatha.
He was standing near his wigwam, 
On the margin of the water, 
And he called to old Nokomis, 
Called and beckoned to Nokomis, 
Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Lying lifeless on the pebbles, 
With the sea-gulls feeding on him.
"I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,
Slain the King of Fishes!" said he' 
"Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,
Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls; 
Drive them not away, Nokomis, 
They have saved me from great peril 
In the body of the sturgeon, 
Wait until their meal is ended, 
Till their craws are full with feasting, 
Till they homeward fly, at sunset, 
To their nests among the marshes; 
Then bring all your pots and kettles, 
And make oil for us in Winter."
And she waited till the sun set, 
Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun, 
Rose above the tranquil water, 
Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls, 
From their banquet rose with clamor, 
And across the fiery sunset 
Winged their way to far-off islands, 
To their nests among the rushes.
To his sleep went Hiawatha, 
And Nokomis to her labor, 
Toiling patient in the moonlight,
Till the sun and moon changed places, 
Till the sky was red with sunrise, 
And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls, 
Came back from the reedy islands, 
Clamorous for their morning banquet.
Three whole days and nights alternate 
Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls 
Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma, 
Till the waves washed through the rib-bones, 
Till the sea-gulls came no longer, 
And upon the sands lay nothing 
But the skeleton of Nahma.

 Another armored animal--scale
 lapping scale with spruce-cone regularity until they
form the uninterrupted central
 tail-row! This near artichoke with head and legs and grit-equipped
 gizzard,
the night miniature artist engineer is,
 yes, Leonardo da Vinci's replica--
 impressive animal and toiler of whom we seldom hear.
 Armor seems extra. But for him,
 the closing ear-ridge--
 or bare ear lacking even this small
 eminence and similarly safe

contracting nose and eye apertures
 impenetrably closable, are not; a true ant-eater,
not cockroach eater, who endures
 exhausting solitary trips through unfamiliar ground at night,
 returning before sunrise, stepping in the moonlight,
 on the moonlight peculiarly, that the outside
 edges of his hands may bear the weight and save the claws
 for digging. Serpentined about
 the tree, he draws
 away from danger unpugnaciously,
 with no sound but a harmless hiss; keeping

the fragile grace of the Thomas-
 of-Leighton Buzzard Westminster Abbey wrought-iron vine, or
rolls himself into a ball that has
 power to defy all effort to unroll it; strongly intailed, neat
 head for core, on neck not breaking off, with curled-in-feet.
 Nevertheless he has sting-proof scales; and nest
 of rocks closed with earth from inside, which can thus
 darken.
 Sun and moon and day and night and man and beast
 each with a splendor
 which man in all his vileness cannot
 set aside; each with an excellence!

"Fearfull yet to be feared," the armored
 ant-eater met by the driver-ant does not turn back, but
engulfs what he can, the flattened sword-
 edged leafpoints on the tail and artichoke set leg- and body-plates
 quivering violently when it retaliates
 and swarms on him. Compact like the furled fringed frill
 on the hat-brim of Gargallo's hollow iron head of a
 matador, he will drop and will
 then walk away
 unhurt, although if unintruded on,
 he cautiously works down the tree, helped

by his tail. The giant-pangolin-
 tail, graceful tool, as a prop or hand or broom or ax, tipped like
an elephant's trunkwith special skin,
 is not lost on this ant- and stone-swallowing uninjurable
 artichoke which simpletons thought a living fable
 whom the stones had nourished, whereas ants had done
 so. Pangolins are not aggressive animals; between
 dusk and day they have not unchain-like machine-like
 form and frictionless creep of a thing
 made graceful by adversities, con-

versities. To explain grace requires
 a curious hand. If that which is at all were not forever,
why would those who graced the spires
 with animals and gathered there to rest, on cold luxurious
 low stone seats--a monk and monk and monk--between the thus
 ingenious roof supports, have slaved to confuse
 grace with a kindly manner, time in which to pay a debt,
 the cure for sins, a graceful use
 of what are yet
 approved stone mullions branching out across
 the perpendiculars? A sailboat

was the first machine. Pangolins, made
 for moving quietly also, are models of exactness,
on four legs; on hind feet plantigrade,
 with certain postures of a man. Beneath sun and moon, man slaving
 to make his life more sweet, leaves half the flowers worth having,
 needing to choose wisely how to use his strength;
 a paper-maker like the wasp; a tractor of foodstuffs,
 like the ant; spidering a length
 of web from bluffs
 above a stream; in fighting, mechanicked
 like the pangolin; capsizing in

disheartenment. Bedizened or stark
 naked, man, the self, the being we call human, writing-
masters to this world, griffons a dark
 "Like does not like like that is abnoxious"; and writes error with four
 r's. Among animals, one has sense of humor.
 Humor saves a few steps, it saves years. Unignorant,
 modest and unemotional, and all emotion,
 he has everlasting vigor,
 power to grow,
 though there are few creatures who can make one
 breathe faster and make one erecter.
 Not afraid of anything is he,
 and then goes cowering forth, tread paced to meet an obstacle
at every step. Consistent with the
 formula--warm blood, no gills, two pairs of hands and a few hairs--
 that
 is a mammal; there he sits on his own habitat,
 serge-clad, strong-shod. The prey of fear, he, always
 curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly
 done,
 says to the alternating blaze,
 "Again the sun!
 anew each day; and new and new and new,
 that comes into and steadies my soul."

 I swim near summer shadows
glide over dappled shoals
keeping to the fluid shallows
reminiscent of the womb 
where I learned to swallow 
gulps 
of tantalising air

in the amniotic sac
where I shed scales 
preferring skin and 
hanks of auburn hair
upon my head
where I dispensed 
with fins and gills
grew hands and feet
with which to tread
and push away 
from muddy banks

I've no desire to wallow 
in the rushes

no human need

the thin sharp reeds 
knot and tangle
cut and pierce 
my derma layer

I can dance 
below the surface
upon the rocky sand
I shall dangle near
the river bottom
suspended, floating free
like the embryo 
I used to be.

 UPON 1 a simmer Sunday morn
 When Nature’s face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
 An’ snuff the caller air.
The rising sun owre Galston muirs
 Wi’ glorious light was glintin;
The hares were hirplin down the furrs,
 The lav’rocks they were chantin
 Fu’ sweet that day.


As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad,
 To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
 Cam skelpin up the way.
Twa had manteeles o” dolefu’ black,
 But ane wi’ lyart lining;
The third, that gaed a wee a-back,
 Was in the fashion shining
 Fu’ gay that day.


The twa appear’d like sisters twin,
 In feature, form, an’ claes;
Their visage wither’d, lang an’ thin,
 An’ sour as only slaes:
The third cam up, hap-stap-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.


Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth I, “Sweet lass,
 I think ye seem to ken me;
I’m sure I’ve seen that bonie face
 But yet I canna name ye.”
Quo’ she, an’ laughin as she spak,
 An’ taks me by the han’s,
“Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck
 Of a’ the ten comman’s
 A screed some day.”


“My name is Fun—your cronie dear,
 The nearest friend ye hae;
An’ this is Superstitution 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.”


Quoth I, “Wi’ 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’ mony a weary body
 In droves that day.


Here farmers gash, in ridin graith,
 Gaed hoddin by their cotters;
There swankies young, in braw braid-claith,
 Are springing owre the gutters.
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
 In silks an’ scarlets glitter;
Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,
 An’ farls, bak’d wi’ butter,
 Fu’ crump that day.


When by the plate we set our nose,
 Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence,
A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws,
 An’ we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show:
 On ev’ry side they’re gath’rin;
Some carrying dails, some chairs an’ stools,
 An’ some are busy bleth’rin
 Right loud that day.


Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs,
 An’ screen our countra gentry;
There “Racer Jess, 2 an’ twa-three whores,
 Are blinkin at the entry.
Here sits a raw o’ tittlin jads,
 Wi’ heaving breast an’ bare neck;
An’ there a batch o’ wabster lads,
 Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock,
 For fun this day.


Here, some are thinkin on their sins,
 An’ some upo’ their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins,
 Anither sighs an’ prays:
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
 Wi’ screwed-up, grace-proud faces;
On that a set o’ chaps, at watch,
 Thrang winkin on the lasses
 To chairs that day.


O happy is that man, an’ blest!
 Nae wonder that it pride him!
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,
 Comes clinkin down beside him!
Wi’ arms repos’d on the chair back,
 He sweetly does compose him;
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
 An’s loof upon her bosom,
 Unkend that day.


Now a’ the congregation o’er
 Is silent expectation;
For Moodie 3 speels the holy door,
 Wi’ tidings o’ damnation:
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
 ’Mang sons o’ God present him,
The vera sight o’ Moodie’s face,
 To ’s ain het hame had sent him
 Wi’ fright that day.


Hear how he clears the point o’ faith
 Wi’ rattlin and wi’ thumpin!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
 He’s stampin, an’ he’s jumpin!
His lengthen’d chin, his turned-up snout,
 His eldritch squeel an’ gestures,
O how they fire the heart devout,
 Like cantharidian plaisters
 On sic a day!


But hark! the tent has chang’d its voice,
 There’s peace an’ rest nae langer;
For a’ the real judges rise,
 They canna sit for anger,
Smith 4 opens out his cauld harangues,
 On practice and on morals;
An’ aff the godly pour in thrangs,
 To gie the jars an’ barrels
 A lift that day.


What signifies his barren shine,
 Of moral powers an’ reason?
His English style, an’ gesture fine
 Are a’ clean out o’ season.
Like Socrates or Antonine,
 Or some auld pagan heathen,
The moral man he does define,
 But ne’er a word o’ faith in
 That’s right that day.


In guid time comes an antidote
 Against sic poison’d nostrum;
For Peebles, 5 frae the water-fit,
 Ascends the holy rostrum:
See, up he’s got, the word o’ God,
 An’ meek an’ mim has view’d it,
While Common-sense has taen the road,
 An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate 6
 Fast, fast that day.


Wee Miller 7 neist the guard relieves,
 An’ Orthodoxy raibles,
Tho’ in his heart he weel believes,
 An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables:
But faith! the birkie wants a manse,
 So, cannilie he hums them;
Altho’ his carnal wit an’ sense
 Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes him
 At times that day.


Now, butt an’ ben, the change-house fills,
 Wi’ yill-caup commentators;
Here ’s cryin out for bakes and gills,
 An’ there the pint-stowp clatters;
While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang,
 Wi’ logic an’ wi’ scripture,
They raise a din, that in the end
 Is like to breed a rupture
 O’ wrath that day.


Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair
 Than either school or college;
It kindles wit, it waukens lear,
 It pangs us fou o’ knowledge:
Be’t whisky-gill or penny wheep,
 Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, or drinkin deep,
 To kittle up our notion,
 By night or day.


The lads an’ lasses, blythely bent
 To mind baith saul an’ body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
 An’ steer about the toddy:
On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk,
 They’re makin observations;
While some are cozie i’ the neuk,
 An’ forming assignations
 To meet some day.


But now the L—’s ain trumpet touts,
 Till a’ the hills are rairin,
And echoes back return the shouts;
 Black Russell is na sparin:
His piercin words, like Highlan’ swords,
 Divide the joints an’ marrow;
His talk o’ Hell, whare devils dwell,
 Our vera “sauls does harrow”
 Wi’ fright that day!


A vast, unbottom’d, boundless pit,
 Fill’d fou o’ lowin brunstane,
Whase raging flame, an’ scorching heat,
 Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
The half-asleep start up wi’ fear,
 An’ think they hear it roarin;
When presently it does appear,
 ’Twas but some neibor snorin
 Asleep that day.


’Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,
 How mony stories past;
An’ how they crouded to the yill,
 When they were a’ dismist;
How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups,
 Amang the furms an’ benches;
An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps,
 Was dealt about in lunches
 An’ dawds that day.


In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife,
 An’ sits down by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife;
 The lasses they are shyer:
The auld guidmen, about the grace
 Frae side to side they bother;
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
 An’ gies them’t like a tether,
 Fu’ lang that day.


Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
 Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma’ need has he to say a grace,
 Or melvie his braw claithing!
O wives, be mindfu’ ance yoursel’
 How bonie lads ye wanted;
An’ dinna for a kebbuck-heel
 Let lasses be affronted
 On sic a day!


Now Clinkumbell, wi’ rattlin tow,
 Begins to jow an’ croon;
Some swagger hame the best they dow,
 Some wait the afternoon.
At slaps the billies halt a blink,
 Till lasses strip their shoon:
Wi’ faith an’ hope, an’ love an’ drink,
 They’re a’ in famous tune
 For crack that day.


How mony hearts this day converts
 O’ sinners and o’ lasses!
Their hearts o’ stane, gin night, are gane
 As saft as ony flesh is:
There’s some are fou o’ love divine;
 There’s some are fou o’ brandy;
An’ mony jobs that day begin,
 May end in houghmagandie
 Some ither day.


 Note 1. “Holy Fair” is a common phrase in the west of Scotland for a sacramental occasion.—R. B. [back]
Note 2. Racer Jess (d. 1813) was a half-witted daughter of Poosie Nansie. She was a great pedestrian. [back]
Note 3. Rev. Alexander Moodie of Riccarton. [back]
Note 4. Rev. George Smith of Galston. [back]
Note 5. Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-upon-Ayr. [back]
Note 6. A street so called which faces the tent in Mauchline.—R. B. [back]
Note 7. Rev. Alex. Miller, afterward of Kilmaurs. [back]

 I have been reading Pomfret's "Choice" this spring, 
A pretty kind of--sort of--kind of thing, 
Not much a verse, and poem none at all, 
Yet, as they say, extremely natural. 
And yet I know not. There's an art in pies, 
In raising crusts as well as galleries; 
And he's the poet, more or less, who knows 
The charm that hallows the least truth from prose, 
And dresses it in its mild singing clothes. 
Not oaks alone are trees, nor roses flowers; 
Much humble wealth makes rich this world of ours. 
Nature from some sweet energy throws up 
Alike the pine-mount and the buttercup; 
And truth she makes so precious, that to paint 
Either, shall shrine an artist like a saint, 
And bring him in his turn the crowds that press 
Round Guido's saints or Titian's goddesses. 

Our trivial poet hit upon a theme 
Which all men love, an old, sweet household dream:-- 
Pray, reader, what is yours?--I know full well 
What sort of home should grace my garden-bell,-- 
No tall, half-furnish'd, gloomy, shivering house, 
That worst of mountains labouring with a mouse; 
Nor should I choose to fill a tawdry niche in 
A Grecian temple, opening to a kitchen. 
The frogs in Homer should have had such boxes, 
Or Aesop's frog, whose heart was like the ox's. 
Such puff about high roads, so grand, so small, 
With wings and what not, portico and all, 
And poor drench'd pillars, which it seems a sin 
Not to mat up at night-time, or take in. 
I'd live in none of those. Nor would I have 
Veranda'd windows to forestall my grave; 
Veranda'd truly, from the northern heat! 
And cut down to the floor to comfort one's cold feet! 
My house should be of brick, more wide than high, 
With sward up to the path, and elm-trees nigh; 
A good old country lodge, half hid with blooms 
Of honied green, and quaint with straggling rooms, 
A few of which, white-bedded and well swept, 
For friends, whose name endear'd them, should be kept. 
The tip-toe traveller, peeping through the boughs 
O'er my low wall, should bless the pleasant house: 
And that my luck might not seem ill-bestow'd, 
A bench and spring should greet him on the road. 

My grounds should not be large. I like to go 
To Nature for a range, and prospect too, 
And cannot fancy she'd comprise for me, 
Even in a park, her all-sufficiency. 
Besides, my thoughts fly far, and when at rest 
Love not a watch-tow'r but a lulling nest. 
A Chiswick or a Chatsworth might, I grant, 
Visit my dreams with an ambitious want; 
But then I should be forc'd to know the weight 
Of splendid cares, new to my former state; 
And these 'twould far more fit me to admire, 
Borne by the graceful ease of noblest Devonshire. 
Such grounds, however, as I had should look 
Like "something" still; have seats, and walks, and brook; 
One spot for flowers, the rest all turf and trees; 
For I'd not grow my own bad lettuces. 
I'd build a cover'd path too against rain, 
Long, peradventure, as my whole domain, 
And so be sure of generous exercise, 
The youth of age and med'cine of the wise. 
And this reminds me, that behind some screen 
About my grounds, I'd have a bowling-green; 
Such as in wits' and merry women's days 
Suckling preferr'd before his walk of bays. 
You may still see them, dead as haunts of fairies, 
By the old seats of Killigrews and Careys, 
Where all, alas! is vanish'd from the ring, 
Wits and black eyes, the skittles and the king! 
Fishing I hate, because I think about it, 
Which makes it right that I should do without it. 
A dinner, or a death, might not be much, 
But cruelty's a rod I dare not touch. 
I own I cannot see my right to feel 
For my own jaws, and tear a trout's with steel; 
To troll him here and there, and spike, and strain, 
And let him loose to jerk him back again. 
Fancy a preacher at this sort of work, 
Not with his trout or gudgeon, but his clerk: 
The clerk leaps gaping at a tempting bit, 
And, hah! an ear-ache with a knife in it! 
That there is pain and evil is no rule 
That I should make it greater, like a fool; 
Or rid me of my rust so vile a way, 
As long as there's a single manly play. 
Nay, "fool"'s a word my pen unjustly writes, 
Knowing what hearts and brains have dozed o'er "bites"; 
But the next inference to be drawn might be, 
That higher beings made a trout of me; 
Which I would rather should not be the case, 
Though Isaak were the saint to tear my face, 
And, stooping from his heaven with rod and line, 
Made the fell sport, with his old dreams divine, 
As pleasant to his taste, as rough to mine. 
Such sophistry, no doubt, saves half the hell, 
But fish would have preferr'd his reasoning well, 
And, if my gills concern'd him, so should I. 
The dog, I grant, is in that "equal sky," 
But, heaven be prais'd, he's not my deity. 
All manly games I'd play at,--golf and quoits, 
And cricket, to set lungs and limbs to rights, 
And make me conscious, with a due respect, 
Of muscles one forgets by long neglect. 
With these, or bowls aforesaid, and a ride, 
Books, music, friends, the day I would divide, 
Most with my family, but when alone, 
Absorb'd in some new poem of my own, 
A task which makes my time so richly pass, 
So like a sunshine cast through painted glass 
(Save where poor Captain Sword crashes the panes), 
That cold my friends live too, and were the gains 
Of toiling men but freed from sordid fears, 
Well could I walk this earth a thousand years.

 I'll tell you the story of Jonah,
A really remarkable tale;
A peaceful and humdrum existence he had
Until one day he went for a sail. 

The weather were grand when they started,
But later at turn of the tide
The wind started blowing, the water got rough,
And Jonah felt funny inside.

When the ship started pitching and tossing
He tried hard his feelings to smother,
At last he just leant his head over the side
And one thing seemed to bring up another.

When the sailors saw what he were doing
It gave them a bit of a jar;
They didn't mind trippers enjoying theirselves,
But thowt this 'ere were going too far.

Said one "Is there nowt you can think on
To stop you from feelin' so bad?"
And Jonah said "Aye, lift me over the side
And chuck me in, there's a good lad."

The sailor were not one to argue,
He said "Happen you know what's best."
Then he picked Jonah up by the seat of his pants
And chucked him in, as per request.

A Grampus came up at that moment,
And seeing the old man hard set,
It swam to his side and it opened its mouth
And said "Come in lad, out of the wet."

Its manner were kindly and pleading,
As if to say R.S.V.P.
Said Jonah "I've eaten a kipper or two,
But I never thowt one would eat me."

The inside of Grampus surprised him,
'Twere the first time he'd been behind scenes;
He found 'commodation quite ample for one
But it smelled like a tin of sardines.

Then over the sea they went cruising,
And Jonah were filled with delight;
With his eye to the blow-'ole in t'Grampus's head
He watched ships that passed in the night.

"I'm tired of watching," said Jonah,
"I'll rest for a minute or so."
"I'm afraid as you wont find your bed very soft,"
Said the Grampus, "I've got a hard roe."

At that moment up came a whale boat,
Said Jonah, "What's this 'ere we've struck?"
"They're after my blubber," the Grampus replied,
"You'd better 'old tight while I duck."

The water came in through the spy-'ole
And hit Jonah's face a real slosher,
He said, "Shut your blow-'ole!" and Grampus replied
"I can't lad, it needs a new washer."

Jonah tried 'ard to bail out the water,
But found all his efforts in vain,
For as fast as he emptied the slops out through the gills
They came in through the blow 'ole again.

When at finish they came to the surface
Jonah took a look out and he saw
They were stuck on a bit of a sandbank that lay
One rod, pole or perch from the shore.

Said the Grampus, "We're in shallow water,
I've brought you as far as I may;
If you sit on the blow 'ole on top of my head
I'll spout you the rest of the way."

So Jonah obeyed these instructions,
And the Grampus his lungs did expand,
Then blew out a fountain that lifted Jo' up
And carried him safely to land.

There was tears in their eyes when they parted
And each blew a kiss, a real big 'un,
Then the Grampus went off with a swish of it's tail
And Jonah walked back home to Wigan.

 When your marrer bone seems 'oller,
And you're glad you ain't no taller,
 And you're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills;
When your skin creeps like a pullet's,
And you're duckin' all the bullets,
 And you're green as gorgonzola round the gills;
When your legs seem made of jelly,
And you're squeamish in the belly,
 And you want to turn about and do a bunk:
For Gawd's sake, kid, don't show it!
Don't let your mateys know it --
 You're just sufferin' from funk, funk, funk.

Of course there's no denyin'
That it ain't so easy tryin'
 To grin and grip your rifle by the butt,
When the 'ole world rips asunder,
And you sees yer pal go under,
 As a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the nut;
I admit it's 'ard contrivin'
When you 'ears the shells arrivin',
 To discover you're a bloomin' bit o' *****;
But, my lad, you've got to do it,
And your God will see you through it,
 For wot 'E 'ates is funk, funk, funk.

So stand up, son; look gritty,
And just 'um a lively ditty,
 And only be afraid to be afraid;
Just 'old yer rifle steady,
And 'ave yer bay'nit ready,
 For that's the way good soldier-men is made.
And if you 'as to die,
As it sometimes 'appens, why,
 Far better die a 'ero than a skunk;
A-doin' of yer bit,
And so -- to 'ell with it,
 There ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk.