The two works bound here could hardly be more different in voice, yet each is a form of prayer. The first, Prayers Written at Vailima, consists of brief, earnest supplications composed by Robert Louis Stevenson for his Samoan household. The second, A Lowden Sabbath Morn, is a Scots-dialect poem that satirizes a Scottish kirk service. Fanny Van de Grift Stevenson’s introduction to the prayers explains their origin: the evening ‘pu’ or war conch summoned the family and retainers to worship, a practice that, she notes, ‘increased the influence of Tusitala tenfold.’ The poem, by contrast, opens with a boy ‘birlin’ at the door’ and builds a crowded, comic scene of rural piety. Together, they reveal Stevenson’s range—from the plain, reverent language of the prayers to the dense, phonetic Scots of the poem, where rhythm and rhyme drive the satire.

The Plain Voice of the Vailima Prayers

The prayers themselves are short, direct, and unadorned. They avoid elaborate metaphor or theological argument. One asks for ‘the spirit of obedience and the grace of humility’; another gives thanks for ‘the joy of the morning.’ The syntax is simple, the vocabulary plain. This spareness seems deliberate: the prayers were meant to be spoken aloud by a multilingual household. Fanny Stevenson’s introduction frames them as a practical necessity—‘the religious scruples of the natives’ had to be satisfied—but also as a genuine expression of Stevenson’s own need for ‘the direct appeal.’ The voice is that of a man speaking to God without rhetorical flourish, in a setting where the war conch could sound for peace. The contrast with the poem’s dense Scots could not be sharper.

Scots Satire and the Rhythm of the Kirk

A Lowden Sabbath Morn moves in swift, rhyming stanzas (ababcc) that mimic the bustle of a Sunday morning. The poem opens with a boy ‘birlin’ at the door’ and proceeds through the gathering congregation, the elders at the plate, the graves of kin, and the minister’s sermon. Stevenson’s ear for dialect is precise: ‘runkled breeks,’ ‘cleiks the sonsie misses,’ ‘yirks the tüne into the air / Wi’ queer contortions.’ The tone is affectionate but sharp. The minister ‘burkes the hopes o’ men that trust in works’ and ‘expounds the fau’ts o’ ither kirks.’ Yet the poem ends with a wry benediction: the ‘bonny creed’ lets the sleeper sleep and the dead ‘sleep aye the deeper.’ The rhythm never flags; the satire is carried by the bounce of the verse.

Changes in Pace Between the Two Works

The shift from the prayers to the poem is a shift in tempo as much as in language. The Vailima prayers are slow, meditative, and repetitive—each one a short paragraph of petition or thanksgiving. They invite pause. The poem, by contrast, is rapid and accumulative. Its stanzas pile detail on detail: the boy, the guidman, the neebours, the bells, the elders, the graves. Where the prayers are still, the poem is kinetic. Even within the poem, pace varies: the opening stanzas hurry through the morning crowd; the middle stanzas slow at the kirkyard, where ‘the guidman sall bide awee / To dwall amang the deid’; then the sermon stanzas pick up speed again. This control of tempo is one of Stevenson’s chief devices, and it is on full display here.

Readers coming to this volume from Stevenson’s novels or essays will find a different side of his craft: the discipline of the short devotional form and the playfulness of dialect verse. The two works are best read side by side, noting how each handles the same subject—communal worship—through opposite means. The prayers ask for silence; the poem fills the air with noise. Together, they show a writer equally at home in the plain style and the vernacular, and equally attentive to the rhythms of spoken language.