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

But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food;
The sowp their only hawkie does afford,

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
То grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell;
And aft he's prest, and 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, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride:
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and 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 heaven-ward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:

Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame : The tickl'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
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,

;

Family on worship

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 Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd 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.

True Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
piety In all the pomp of method, and of art;
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart!
The Power, 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 Heaven 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 blestwith 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-lov'd
isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,

That stream'd thro' great unhappy Wallace'
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!

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

"O Prince! O chief of many throned pow'rs
That led th' embattl'd seraphim to war-"
MILTON.

O THOU! whatever title suit thee-
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

Clos'd under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,

Ev'n to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,

An' hear us squeel!

A prayer for Scotland

Satan's

various

forms

Great is thy pow'r an' great thy fame;
Far ken'd an' noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowin' heuch's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate, nor scaur.

Whiles, ranging like a roarin lion,
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin;
Whiles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,
Tirlin the kirks;

Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my rev'rend graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld ruin'd castles grey

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,

Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my graunie summon,
То say her pray❜rs, douse, honest woman!
Aft 'yont the dyke she's heard you bummin,
Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin,

Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,

The stars shot down wi' sklentin light,

Wi' you mysel' I gat a fright,

Ayont the lough;

Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,

Wi' wavin sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,