A Fair Day - Poem by Thomas Pattison

On Tuesday I wrote about "Fair Day" in Bowmore. In that post I quoted what I thought was the poem that described the scene in the image. Later I found out it wasnt the poem but the notes on the poem by the Rey. John G. Macneill. Now I won't repeat the notes, after all you can read them in the original post. What I do want to share with you is the original poem of Bowmore's Fair Day. I believe Jim Loudon from the Islay list at Rootsweb was responsible for putting this online, many thanks for that! It's a long but lovely read and I'm sure you will enjoy it. I have posted the image of a painting by William Heath from Bowmore Fair day a second time to get you in the right mood when you read the poem.

A Fair Day- Poem by Thomas Pattison

A village looks the keen and lucid north
Full in the blue and weather-beaten face;
Before it lies a long and winding bay,
Within whose shelter, in the gloom and storm,
When winter revels o'er the roughening sea.
Full many a coasting brig, and drudging sloop.
And tempest-baffled bark at anchor ride,
And rest from wand and tossing wave without.
Then is the village crowded with the crews,
The taverns thronged, and hard-won earnings spent,
And sometimes squabbles raised by Jack ashore.
Beyond the anchorage, a range of hills,
In mellow, undulating line, is set;
With parti-coloured culture, varied so.
They seem in Autumn as with tartan clad.
Westward, and looking from the hither side,
Down on the beach and o'er the bending bay,
A rocky eminence the village flanks.
Whose top is crested with a broken tower,
Scene of much talk and observation long. Continue reading......

Eastward, is offered with the tide at full,
A peaceful, pleasant, variegated scene
From the green margin of the swollen loch
Deep, to the background resting on the sky.
With three high hills, its giant guardians raised,
Together standing, conical and blue.
High up the brae on which the village stands
Runs one wide street — its pride and ornament —
With its quay jutting in the sea below,
And at its head the church spire high in heaven;
Its tiled or slated houses rise between,
And in the midst of all, the ancient pump,
That mark of Terminus, the steadfast god,
Once painted blue, with freestone trough appears.
This is the scene, then, of my song to-day.
And evening is the time.

An August afternoon — blue sky — bright sun —
The village streets, that wont so quiet be,
All full of bustling life and busy talk.
And tread of men, and tramp of horses' feet;
With hundreds occupied in countless ways,
Single, together, moving or at rest.
Spreading a murmur like a cataract.
There, on one spot, are sunburnt faces seen.
With massy features and bluff hardy look,
And broad and brawny forms, all clad in blue.
The deep sea fishers these, whose luggers ride
The breezy sea that clips the Hebrides;
And these their wives, so garrulous and glad,
Who sell their hard smoked fishing by the score,
And black coarse oil, to meet the winter night.
With them their daughters come, all trig and smart,
And youngsters eager for the holiday,
Now wildly staring, for they never looked
On such a crowd of busy men before.

Leaving that scene of busy interchange,
You see the group about those horses met,
One is the ploughman in his best array;
That broad squat man, so round and corpulent,
With dry black hair, and full brown eye and bright,
The shabby coat, and clothes that once were good,
With his hands deep into his pouches held,
And look of ready cash about his face, —
That man who, jingling, jingling, stands and looks,
Is a horse-couper. And the tall thin man
With the broad shoulders who, witli out-stretched neck,
O'erlooks his comrade's round and dusty hat,
And wears a coat that reaches to his heels —
He is the friend — the friend and referee.
But that's an amateur whose brows are knit.
Who, better dressed and sprucer on the whole
Than the two dealers, sees a bargain close,
And stepping up, with calculating care
Pokes on the ribs the horse that's to be sold, —
Looking as wise as Solomon the while —
Then with one weighty sentence turns away.
These are his friends and satellites behind,
Who hang upon his skirts, — look as he looks,
Turn as he turns, and wander as he goes;
Thinking him paragon of mortal men.

See, here another ripening bargain grows,
Where the crowd severs fast from side to side,
And from its bosom rushes, at full trot,
A stalwart horse, and groom that stirs him on.
Displaying two grave figures to the view
Clad in loose clothes of no decided shape,
And darned, by'r lady, in more spots than one.
Ay, there they stand, like Damon and his fere.
Acutely watching the steed's heavy pace.
And much engrossed in cogitations deep
As any statist gives a nation's hopes —
What is his age, his quality, and breed?

Pass yet along, and see this dusty close,
With many hundred pattering feet impressed,
When, with a whirr, the flock together run
At near approach of some stray dog, or man
Who comes to choose a wether, or few sheep,
To eke his stock and bring next summer gain.
That tall stout man, in the grey homespun dressed -
Who moves about with such a manly stride,
And whose large hand, so oily and so tarred,
Picks for the buyer what he wants to take —
Is owner both and keeper of the sheep.
To all and each alike, or high or low,
He speaks sedately in his native tongue,
With easy flow of past'ral rhetoric.
And self possessed, — in conscious rectitude
Dispenses courtesy and nice regard —
So quick to feel indignity himself.
For though his station bears no glossy show,
Yet, filled with treasured memories of old,
With deeds of valour, gentleness, and birth,
The shepherd holds within his secret soul,
A grace like David's with the pride of Saul.
And thus he feels, though poor the mode of life,
What truly makes the man may yet be great,
Although he owns not much, if he but knows
And acts in self-collected dignity
Unmoved but thus: not what the eye perceives,
But what is felt and living in the mind
Ennobles man, and doth the earth adorn.
So lived the prophets in the days of old —
Long may such spirits permeate our own.

Still further pierce into the deepening crowd,
Cautious you give the frequent steeds, the while,
No chance to make but small bones of your legs;
Careful to steer between the talking groups
Of busy men and dressed and showy girls,
And as you slowly pass along, you note
Where, in the thoroughfare, the stands are set,
And boys with open mouth and staring eyes,
In soul devour the whole delicious stock,
They want the means one pennyworth to buy.

There, in his cart, the glib-mouthed auctioneer
Deals old, old wit, and long used up, around,
And cheats the rustics with his fluent tongue.
And much amazes them — he talks so well.
There, in bewilderment, a culprit stands,
Beneath the rattle of his brazen slang,
Who gave a bid in utter ignorance,
And much perplexed, now hesitating looks,
Hearing his opposite, with deep respect,
Quote in a breath his license and his Queen.

There, with his stand, the vendor of the nuts
Offers his bow, "Only a penny, gents!"
And eager youths come vieing for the prize,
"Sixty large nuts for him who hits the ring."
There is the draper with his goods and clothes,
All ready-made, or bundled up in bales,
And moleskin, duck, or woolen garments, ranged,
Attract the eydent housewife's careful eye;
While pen-knives, walking-sticks, umbrellas blue,
Marked with huge tickets, tempt with tiny price.

There with her plain deal table, covered clean,
A spinster stands, or pawky auld guidwife,
Who dearly loves a cheering cup of tea.
Spread are her bowls and largest cups to view,
Half-filled with comfits purchased for the fair,
Bought at five shillings, which she'll sell at twelve.

Now in the heat of rivalry she stands,
Where bold competitors, with practised wile.
On every side allure the urchin's eye.
To disappointment not unseldom doomed,
She sees the valued currency that flows
On either side, but scarcely reaches her —
Boding but ill unto the hoarded store
Devoted to her secret beverage.
Across the street there rolls a thundering drum,
And through the crowd that rush and struggle by
You have a glimpse of some gay figure near,
In cotton garment all with spangles decked:
Flitting like figures in a fairy dream.
They with their feats of rare dexterity —
Their balls, cups, cards, and strange ventriloquism,
Their matchless pony's knowing craftiness,
And Lady of the Troop, so gaudy dressed,
Who dances blindfold 'mid the rows of eggs,
And foots so featly that they cry, "O rare!"
Draw crowded houses — thunders of applause.
Did Thespis lead a life like this of old?
And thus began the comedy of Greece?
Strange what a difference a language makes,
Lagging behind, or moving with an age!

But hark! a note of music touched mine ear —
Come, we will trace it up this flight or steps,
Built to an outer wall with clumsy flags,
Whose rough ascent conducts us to the door
Now open wide, inviting customers.
Here is a loft, in winter stored with hay,
Or corn, or fodder, for the cattle kept,
Now swept and fitted for the fiery dance;
And from the gloaming, through some brisk dark hours,
A steady thumping will be heard afar,
As rattles on the sharp and sounding string
The flying reel, — the exciting curt strathspey,
When dainty Chloe will, or Phillis fair,
Who set so neatly, and who look so well,
Move huge affection in stout Damon's heart,
Flinging so lustily with shouts before.
'Tis yet in prelude, this hot, hasty mirth —
For still the hall is empty, save that end
Where, Avith the violin against his breast,
A rural amateur is showing off —
With beating foot, — bow by the middle held,
Contorted face, and wild and staring eye,
Some new-learned reel to his experienced ear,
Who sits and listens in sarcastic calm;
But when he stops, pays him high compliments,
And vows 'tis time for him to quit the stage,
Now that such fingers on the strings are laid.
The chief musician of the Fair is this,
Whose voice goes thrilling through the bungler's heart,
Who takes for gospel every word that's said.
And so the young man, moving to the door,
Nurses the praise within his flattered mind,
Till it uplifts his step upon his toes,
Like Shakespeare's Diomed, in scorn of earth.
Then touching the scraps of lively tunes.
The minstrel rolls his sightless eyes and waits
Until the hall begins to fill anon;
And the exciting motion, once afoot,
Increases furiously until the dawn.

See from that tavern pour a jolly rout,
Not yet excited with the lively draught.
Friends treat their friends, and bargain-makers meet,
And o'er the liquor talk of times gone by,
Or mention matters that obtain to-day;
The Ancient, with blue bonnet laid aside,
Fills up the glass that circulates to all.
The comely belle takes but a modest sip;
The older spinster, rising in her turn,
With glass in hand, says some appropriate words,
"To the good health of all," and does but taste. —
Protesting faintly that her head is weak,
And that indeed she cannot, dare not more,
Yet yielding most reluctantly, 't would seem,
To the warm pressure of the welcome kind,
That pours so heartily from every side.
What can she do, but sacrifice herself?
And suck in slowly every diamond drop,
Looking like Socrates, the poisoned sage,
In pensive resignation all the while.
A wringing pressure from the horny hand,
A warm good-wish to each and all around,
Then every man swigs at a gulp his share,
And forth they sally to the street again.
Meeting old faces with a tone of joy,
A quickened step, and eager offered hand,
A kind enquiry and a firm long shake,
As if the one had dropped from the moon,
The other from the planet Jupiter;
And if no further business intervene,
They will adjourn to have a dram betimes.

This jovial work makes heated heads at last,
And warms the blood that courses through their veins,
With no small ardour at the very best,
And fires the mind, and swells the excited soul,
Till whisky, talking, dancing, music's power,
Or favoured rival's envied privilege,
Or fancied insult in some careless tone,
Or pride of prowess and ambitious strength,
Or tipsy singer's loud and cheery note,
Who reels contentedly beside a friend,
With squabbles, and confused and grating noise
Close on the few late revellers the scene.