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“ Left in temptation's path ye gang asray,

“ Inplore his counsel and allifting migh : " They never fought in vain that fought the Lord

" aright.”

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door,

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the fame, Tells how a nсebor lad came 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 fulh her check,
With heart-struck, anxious care, enquires his name,

While Jenny haflins is afraid to speak ;
Weel pleas'd the Mother hears, it's nae wild worthless


With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ;

A ftrappan youth ; he takes the Mother's eye ; Blythe Jenny sees the visits no ill ta'en ;

The Father cracks o' horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows.wi' joy,

But blate, an' laithfu’ scarce can weel behave; The Mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy

What makes the youth sae bashfu' and fae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the


O happy love! where love like this is found !

O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare I've paced much this weary, mortal round,

And sage Experience bids ine this declare-“ Tf Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure (pare,

“ 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 evining

“ gale.”

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, ny, ensnaring art,

Betray tweet Jenny's unfuspecting youth? Curse on his perjur'd airts, diffembling finoo:h!

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exild? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,

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


But now the supper crowns their fimple board,

The healsome porritch, chief of Scotia's food : The soupe their only hawkie does afford,

That 'yont the hallan fnugly chows her cood : The Dame-brings forth, in complimental mood,

To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebhuck, fell, And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid ;

The frugal Wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond auld fin' Lint was i' the bell,

The chéarfu' fupper 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 revèrently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin'and bare ; These strains that once did tweet in Zion glide,

He wales a portion with judicious care e; “ And let us worship God!” he says, with folemn air.

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They chaunt their artless notes in fimple guise ;

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise,

Or plaintive Martyr's, 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 tickled cars no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like Father reads the facred 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 lye,

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avengiog 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,

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 (ped ;

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : How he, who lone in Patmos banished,

Saw in the fon a mighty Angel ftand, And hear'd great Bab’lon's doom pronounc'd by Hea

veu'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 figh or thed 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.

Compar’d with this, how poor Religion's pride,

In all the pomp of inethod 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 frain, the facerdotal ftole ; But baply in some Cottage far apart,

May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the foul ; And in His Book of Life the inmates pour enrol. Then homeward all take off their several way ;

The youngling Cottagers retire to reft: The Parent-pair their secret hoinage pay,

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He who ftills the raven's clam'rous neft,

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way His Wifdom sees the best,

For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. From sųenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,

Thai makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad :

* Pope's Windsor Forest.

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 foil !

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is fent! Long may thy hardy fons of rustic toil,

Be blest with health and peace, and sweet content! And, O! may Heaven their aimple 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 ide. o Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,

That stream'd thro' great unhappy Wallace' heart; Who dar'd to, nobly, fem 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 realın desert,

But still the Patriot and the Patriot-bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornainent and guard !

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TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. On turning one down with the plough, in April 1786 WEE, modeft, crimson-tipped Flow'r ! Thou's met me in an evil hour;

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