Volume Iv Part 31 (1/2)

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, And shudder at the niffer; But cast a moment's fair regard, What maks the mighty differ?

Discount what scant occasion gave That purity ye pride in, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hidin'.

Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop: Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way;-- But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It makes an unco lee-way.

See Social Life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmugrified, they've grown Debauchery and Drinking: Oh, would they stay to calculate The eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded h.e.l.l to state, d.a.m.nation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in G.o.dly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases; A dear-loved lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination,-- But, let me whisper i' your lug, Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord,--its various tone, Each spring,--its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute; We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE, OR THE WONDERFUL ”ONE-HOSS SHAY”

A Logical Story

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it--ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,-- Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.

Georgius Secundus was then alive,-- Snuffy old drone from the German hive.

That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown.

It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot,-- In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will,-- Above or below, or within or without,-- And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an ”I dew vum,” or an ”I tell yeou,”) He would build one shay to beat the taown 'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldn' break daown: ”Fur,” said the Deacon, ”'t's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest.”

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,-- That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees, The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the ”Settler's ellum,”-- Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died.

That was the way he ”put her through.”

There! said the Deacon, ”naow she'll dew!”

Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less!

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren--where were they?

But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.

Eighteen hundred increased by ten; ”Hahnsum kerridge” they called it then.

Eighteen hundred and twenty came;-- Running as usual; much the same.

Thirty and Forty at last arrive, And then come Fifty, and Fifty-Five.

Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer.

In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth.

(This is a moral that runs at large; Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.)

FIRST OF November,--the Earthquake-day,-- There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay.

A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say.