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85

"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure

spare

One cordial in this melancholy vale,

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling
smooth!

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd?

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? 90 Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild?

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100

But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food;
The soupe their only hawkie does afford,

That, 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:
The dame brings forth, in complimental
mood,

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell;
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid:
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell

How 't was a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the
bell.

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride;

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130

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,

He wales a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise, They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;

Perhaps Dundee's' wild-warbling measures rise,

Or plaintive Martyrs,' worthy of the name; Or noble 'Elgin' beets the heaven-ward flame,

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:

Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed: How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; How His first followers and servants sped;

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,

135 And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.

140

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,

Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;

While circling Time moves round in an eternal
sphere.

145 Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art; When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 150 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart,

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May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul;

And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:

The parent-pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,

Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

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From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs,

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of God;" And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind;

What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent,

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!

And O! may Heaven their simple lives pre

vent

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while,

180 And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle.

185

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,

That stream'd thro' great unhappy Wallace'
heart,

Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part:
(The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard
In bright succession raise, her ornament and
guard!

TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,

O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!

5 I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

10

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 15 A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request;

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
20 It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething now to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

25 Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell—

Till, crash! the cruel coulter past