"If Heaven a draught of heavenly 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 evening gale." Is there, in human form, that bears a heart- Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? 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 halesome 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-hain'd kebbuck, fell, An' aft he's press'd, 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, 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; [air. And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn 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 heavenward flame, The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise; 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, And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by 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. VOL. II. 1 Compared with this, how poor religion's pride, Devotion's every grace except the heart! [soul; May hear, well pleased, the language of the And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their several way; 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 hearts 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 a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! Oh Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may the hardy sons of rustic toil [content! Be bless'd with health, and peace, and sweet 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-loved isle. Oh Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide [heart; That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted Who dared 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!), Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert: But still the patriot and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's not thy neebor sweet, When upward-springing, blithe to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is given, To mis'ry's brink, Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven, E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight TO J. s**** SOME rhyme a neebor's name to lash; |