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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,
'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 exild?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,

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


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 ;
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 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 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;

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,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,

In such society, yet still more dear ;
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.



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,
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.



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 ;
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,

A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle.


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 !)
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert,

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



'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,
When wearing thro' the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure :
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Whare sailors gang to fish for Cod.

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar,
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar;
But tho' he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride -na pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin.
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
An' stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him.

The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang,
Was made lang syne, -Lord knows how lang.

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.


His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Ay gat him friends in ilka place;
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o'glossy black;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o'ither, i
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ;
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit ;
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ;
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
An' worry'd ither in diversion;
Until wi' daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down,
And there began a lang digression
About the lords o' the creation.


I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
What sort o'life poor dogs like you have ;
An' when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv'd ava.

Our Laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kain, an' a' his stents;
He rises when he likes himsel ;
His flunkies answer at the bell ;
He ca's his coach ; he ca's his horse ;
He draws a bonie, silken purse
As lang's my tail, whare thro' the steeks
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.

Frae morn to e'en, its nought but toiling
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ;
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin,
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' sauce ragouts and siclike trashtrie,
That's little short o downright wastrie.
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner,
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
Better than ony tenant man
His honour has in a' the lan :
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own it's past my comprehension.

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