Classic Poem

'T WEEN midnicht an' mornin', that eerie hour when,
As Scripture says, “Deep sleep fa's doun upon men,”
When the wild winds are a' lockit up in their caves,
An' the ghosts o' the deid venture oot o' their graves,
To dauner aboot 'neath the bonnie muneshine,
Or bide aroun' places they likit lang syne.
Then, somehoo' or ither, I dreamed I was deid—
Guid kens what could put sic a thocht in my heid!
I was borne thro' the lift, an' awa' 'yont the mune,
And a' the wee stars that were rowin' abune.
At last I was loutit richt down at the gate,
Where holy Saint Peter's appointed to wait;
But tied on my back was a burden o' sin,
Sae I thocht I'd hae trouble ere I could get in.
There were things on my conscience that heavily sat,
Sic as dribblin' an' drinkin', an' waur things than that.
Ah! ye may believe me, I felt unco blate,
An' couldna tak' courage to rap at the gate.
Sae I crept in a corner to watch for a chance,
Whan wha does I see like a trooper advance,
But Granny McNab! Haith! I trummelt wi' fear!
What the deevil, thinks I, brings the auld viper here?
I dootna she comes just to clype upon me,
An' feth, the auld lass winna stick at a lee!
I only could mutter, “Guid guide us frae skaith,
A lost sowl am I if it's left to her aith!”
Oot at her I keekit, a' sweetin' wi' fricht,
An' thankfu' was I to be oot o' her sicht;
But up she comes bauldly, an' raps at the gate,
An' cries, “Open quickly, for I canna wait!”
Says I to mysel', “Lass, if they'll tak' you in
There's hope for me yet wi' my burden o' sin.”

Then oot cam' Saint Peter—an' there did he stan',
The keys at his girdle, a sword in his han'—
An' says, rather snelly, “Wife, wha may ye be?”
When Granny says, smilin', “Ye suirly ken me?
I'm Mistress McNab, frae the East Neuk o' Fife—
Ye'll fin' my name's doun in the Lamb's Book o' Life.
I've focht the guid fecht, an' the battle I've won,
Sae lead me in-by to the Faither and Son.
I claim the reward—naething less than the croun,
Wi' the gems and the jewels a' buskit aroun'!
Upon His ain shoulders I laid a' my sin,
Sae stan' here nae langer, but juist tak' me in.
I can say a' my questions, I've lines frae the Session,
For ne'er was I catcht, sir, in ony transgression;
I believ'd the haill Book frae beginnin' to en',
Its' a' richt wi' me, Saint, sae juist tak' me ben.”

“Hoot, hoot!” quo' the Saint, and he seem'd unco brief,
“We carena a bodle aboot your belief;
But juist let me hear o' some guid ye hae dune,
For it's only by guid works ye'll ever get in.”

“The guid works I've done?” quo' she, “hear to the man!
I'm tellin' ye o' them as fast as I can.
The foremaist was I, man, in ev'ry guid work—
The pillar an' prop o' the auld Burgher Kirk.
I ne'er could put up wi' the claver an' clash
O' the Baptists an' a' the mere Methody trash:
Wi' their wun' an' their water, I haena a doot,
If there's licht amang them they'll sune put it oot.
An' then wi' new notions I ne'er could agree,
I stuck to the auld anes, whate'er they might be.
Jean Tamson insisted on common Salvation,
But, heth! I preferr'd universal Damnation.
Jean gangs to nae kirk, an' she tell't me atweel
Sectarianism's the wark o' the deil!
Ah, Granny,' says she, ‘when we leave this auld frame,
An' the spirit, unfetter'd, mak's aff for its hame,
We'll never be speert to which kirk did we go,
Were we sprinkled, or plowtit,—ah, no, Granny, no!
It's the lives we hae led, the guid or ill we hae dune,
That mak's us or mars us wi' them up abune.’

“She tried to convert me to Mercy an' Grace,
An' the natural guidness o' a' Adam's race,
An' spak' o' the caum o' the bonnie blue sky,
An' the fountain o' Mercy that never rins dry.
Noo, Saint, did ye e'er hear sic havers as thae?
Should she be alloo'd to lead young anes astray?
They're awfu', the doctrines that she does advance—
Thinks swearers and cut-throats may a' hae a chance;
She couldna catch me! for I threw in her mouth
‘An e'e for an e'e, an' a tooth for a tooth.’”

The Saint shook his heid, and said, “Woman, begin
And tell me at last o' some guid ye hae dune!”

“But still,” she continued, “od! am I no sayin',
'Tween huntin' down heresy, plottin' and prayin',
An' haulin' the ne'er-do-weel backsliders up,
An' them wha unworthily drank o' the cup,
I had a big han'fu', o' wark to get thro'.
Oh, wha's to look after the licht limmers noo?”

“Hoot! hoot!” quo' the Saint, “wife, for guidsake begin
An' tell me at last o' some guid ye hae dune!”

“Do ye mean to tell me, sir, I did nae guid,
When I for the kirk an' the cutty-stool stuid?
When I was reviled by the licht an' profane,
And bore the haill brunt o' the parish my lane,
An' focht wi' Auld Hawkie—the warst o' a' men—
Wha said 'twas a farce frae beginnin' to en'.
Oh, he's an auld blackguard, an' has a vile tongue!
His words aye fell on me like strokes frae a rung.
He said my religion was a' a mere sham;
Tell't me to my face, sir, I likit a dram;
An' tho' I had gotten the faith o' assurance,
That I was a Jezebel past a' endurance;
Tell't me to my face, in my auld flannen mutch,
In the days of lang syne, I'd been burnt for a wutch.
‘Ye're juist Mistress Grundy,’ quo' he—the auld rake!
I'm sorry there isna a hell for his sake!
Ye'll min' when he comes here o' what he has dune,
An' ye'll no let the wicked auld blasphemer in.”

“Whisht! whisht!” said the Saint, “wife, I've hearken'd owre lang;
That ane ye ca' Hawkie was hardly far wrang.
Ye've come to the wrang place, my woman, I fear;
Your kind o' religion's o' nae accoont here.
Ye ne'er were the woman to lichten the load
O' ony puir wretch on life's wearisome road;
And, by your ain story, ye lived but a life
O' pious pretension, backbiting, and strife.
On mony a tender affection ye trod,
Tell't mony a lee for the glory o' God;
Ye've weel earned your place in the great lowin' heuch.
Speak nae ither word, I've heard mair than eneuch!
To a' honest folk ye're a terrible fricht,
Sae aff, ye auld bissom, an' oot o' my sicht!”

Dumbfounded, a moment the auld hizzie stan's,
Then up she rins at him, aclappin' her han's.
“A pretty-like story! Is't you, sir,” says she,
“Wha daurs to keep oot sic a woman as me?
Ye were but a cooart, man, whan ye were tried!
I'm thinkin' the Maister I never denied.
Ye cursin' auld scunner! ye leein' auld lout!
An' ye'd be for keepin' the like o' me oot!
Na, na! Maister Peter, ere I gang to hell,
I'll hae twa-rhee words wi' the Faither himsel’.”

For mair o' her clatter the Saint didna wait,
But in he slipt quickly an' bolted the gate.
An' oh! sic a pictur' was auld Granny's face,
O' impidence baffled, o' shame, an' disgrace,
I burst oot a lauchin'!—I fairly did scream—
Which startled me out o' my won'erfu' dream.