No sound of hammer or of saw was there. Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts Were soon conjoin'd, nor other cement ask'd 145 From heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene. 155 So stood the brittle prodigy; though smooth 160 Where all was vitreous; but in order due Convivial table and commodious seat (What seem'd at least commodious seat) were there, Sofa and couch and high-built throne august. The same lubricity was found in all, 165 And all was moist to the warm touch; a scene Of evanescent glory, once a stream, And soon to slide into a stream again. [The remaining seven hundred and forty lines of this poem consist of little but commonplace reflections on political institutions and on the moral government of the world.] BURNS. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ., OF AYR. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, GRAY. My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend! My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 5 IO The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 15 Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee. His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun'; 330 In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, Or déposite her sair-won penny-fee, 35 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 40 The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 45 Their master's an' their mistress's command, An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play: "An' O! be sure to fear the Lord alway, An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! 50 Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!" 20 25 But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; 65 But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 70 What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 75 80 O happy love! where love like this is found! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning 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, Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild? Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? 85 90 But now the supper crowns their simple board, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; 95 To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell. An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The hig ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 100 His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; 105 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 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: The tickl'd ears no heartfelt raptures raise; The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 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 other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre. IIO 115 I 20 125 |