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The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,
But, blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi’ a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.
O happy love! where love like this is found !
( heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare• If Heaven a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare, .
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale
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 exild?
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ?
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 hallen snugly chows her cood; The dame brings forth in complimental mood,
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
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 rev'rently 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 ;
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 heav'nward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Çompar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The ticki'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 rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
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;
130 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 Bab’lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.
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,
In such society, yet still more dear ;
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 Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart,
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 Heav'n the warm request, That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
For them and for their little ones provide ;
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, Oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury's contagion weak and vile ;
A virtuous populace may rise the while,
O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide
That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted 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 !)
But still the patriot and the patriot-bard
THE TWA DOGS.
'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar,
The tither was a ploughman's collie,
He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Nae doubt but they were fain o'ither, i
I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
Our Laird gets in his racked rents,
Frae morn to e'en, its nought but toiling