Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' flisket,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whisket,
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,

Mivrited Wi' pith an' pow'r,

Till sprittie knowes wad 'rair't and risket, An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labor back to keep,

I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap

Aboon the timmer;

I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep

For that, or Simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestet;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
Thou never lap, an' sten't and breastet,
Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa.

My Pleugh is now thy bairn-time a':
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa,

That thou hast nurst:

They drew me thretteen pund an' twa

The vera warst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
An' wi' the weary warl' fought!

An' monie an anxious day, I thought
We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy Age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld, trusty Servan', That now perhaps thou's less deservin, An' thy auld days may end in starvin,

For my last fou,

A heapet Stimpart, I'll reserve ane

Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether

To some hain'd rig,

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi' sma' fatigue.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. OF AYR.

M

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the Poor.

GRAY.

Y lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary Bard his homage pays:

With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end;

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;
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose:
The toil-worn COTTER frae his labor goes,

This night his weekly moil is at an end,

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
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,

Beneath the shelter of an agèd tree;

The expectant wee-things, toddlan, stacher through
To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkan bonilie,

His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty Wifie's smile,
The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,

Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, e
At Service out, amang the Farmers roun';

Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town:

Ty

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,

In youthfu' bloom, Love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,

To help her Parents dear, if they in hardship be.

With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers: WAA

The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears;

The Parents partial eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view.

The Mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers,

Gars auld claies look amaist as weel's the new; The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their Master's an' their Mistress's command,

The younkers a' are warnèd to obey;

An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, dignit

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play :

An' O! be sure to fear the LORD alway,

"An' mind your duty, duely, morn an' night!

Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,

Implore his counsel and assisting might:

6112

They never sought in vain that sought the LORD aright!"

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door,
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor,
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily Mother sees the conscious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;
Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; aty
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;