With joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, The mother, wi' her needle and her sheers, Their master's and their mistress's command They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!' With heart-struck anxious care enquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel-pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. With kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben: A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-taen; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. Oh happy love, where love like this is found! '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, Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild? But now the supper crowns their simple board: That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood. How 't was a towmond auld sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, And 'Let us worship God!' he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; Or plaintive 'Martyrs,' worthy of the name; Or noble 'Elgin' beets the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays. Compared 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; With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 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; 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, 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. Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. Then homeward all take off their several way; And proffer up to Heaven the warm request 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, What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, 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 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-loved isle. O Thou, Who poured the patriotic tide That streamed 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!) 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 MOUSE ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785 Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's win's ensuin, |