80 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, 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? 95 100 But now the supper crowns their simple board, That, 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell; How 't was a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 105 110 115 120 125 130 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, With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 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: 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, Together hymning their Creator's praise, While circling Time moves round in an eternal 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, 155 160 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 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. 165 170 175 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' Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 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! 5 I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 10 I'm truly sorry man's dominion, Which makes thee startle 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! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 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 |