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To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell An' aft he's press'd, an' aft he ca's it good ;

The frugal wifie garrulous will tell,
How 'thas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.

The cheerfu' sapper 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 wearin thin an' bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,

He wales a portion with judicinus care ;
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 heav'nward flame,

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;

The tickled 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 lys


Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in heav'n 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 Bað 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 bítter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise,

In such society, yet still more dear; While circling tinie 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 enrol.

* Pope's Windsor Forest.

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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.

XIX. From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs

That makes her lov'd at liome, rever'd abroad; Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,

“An honest man's the poblest work of God;' And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road,

The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,

Disguising of the wretch of human-kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warınest wish to heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil,

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweetcontent! 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' Wallace's undaunted heart; 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!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert;

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




Thou whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,
Be thou deck'd in silken stole,
Grave these counsels on thy soul

Life is but a day at most,
Sprung from night, in darkness lost;
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour,
Fear not clouds will always low'r.

As youth and love, with sprightly dance,
Beneath thy morning star advance,
Pleasure with her siren air
May delude the thoughtless pair ;
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup,
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.

As thy day grows warm and high,
Life's meridian flaming nigh,
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ?
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scala?.

Check thy climbing step, elate,
Evils lurk in felon wait;
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold,
Soar around each cliffy hold,
While cheerful peace, with linnet song,
Chants the lowly deils among

As the shades of evening close,
Beck’ning thee to long repose;
As life itself becomes disease,
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease;
There ruminate with sober thought,
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought;
And teach the sportive younkers round,
Laws of experience, sage and sound.
Say, Man's true, genuine, estimate,
The grand criterion of his fate,
Is not, art thou bigh or low?
Did thy fortune ebb or flow?
Did many talents gild the span ?
Or frugal nature grudge thee one?
Tell them, and press it on their mind,
As thou thyself 'must shortly find,
The smile or frown of awful heav'n,
To virtue or to vice is giv'n.
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise,
There solid self-enjoyment lies;
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways,
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base.

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep
To the bed of lasting sleep;
Sleep, whence thou shall ne'er awake,
Night, where dawn shall never break,
"Till future life, future no more,
To light and joy the good restore,
To light and joy unknown before!

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