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0, happy love! where love like this is found !

O, heartfelt raptures:! bliss beyond compare ! I've paced much this weary mortal rourd,

If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truthThat can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,

Betray swcet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling, smooth!

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? That paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild 3

But now the supper crowns their simple board,

The healsome 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 hained hebbuck, fell, An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it gude;

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas 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, wi' patriarchal grace,

The big ha' bible, ance his father's pride : His bonnet reverently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' 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 Martyr's, worthy of the name, Or noble Elgin beats the heaven-ward flame,

Compared with these, Italian trills are tame,

The tickled 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

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; And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by

Heaven's command.

Then, kneeling down, to Heaven's eternal King

The saint, the father, and the husband, prays :

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

Compared with this, how poor religion's pride,

In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide,

Devotion's every grace, except the heart ! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert,

The pompous train, the sacerdotal stole ; But baply, in some cottage far apart

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul,

Then homeward all take off their several 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 clamorous nest,

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best,

For them and for their little ones provide ; But, chiefly, in their heart with grace divine preside

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,

That makes her loved at home, revered 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 the lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined.

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 prevent,

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,

A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much loved Isle

0 Thou! who poured the patriotic tide,

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart' Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,

Or nobly die—the second glorious part; · (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art,

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard.


Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thou'st met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure,

Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now is past my power

Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! its no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet ;
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

Wi' speckled breast,
When upward-springing, blythe to greet

The purpling east.

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