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"Left in temptation's path ye gang aftray,

"Implore his counsel and affifting 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 same,
Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor,
To do fome errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily Mother fees the confcious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek,
With heart-ftruck, anxious care, enquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to fpeak;

Weel pleas'd the Mother hears, it's nae wild worthless rake.

With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ;

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

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

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

What makes the youth fae bafhfu' and fae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's refpećted like the lave.

O happy love! where love like this is found!
O heart-felt raptures! blifs beyond compare!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,

And fage Experience bids me this declare--
"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 fcents the evining


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

A wretch! a villain! loft to love and truth!
That can, with ftudied, fly, ensnaring art,

Betray fweet Jenny's unfuspecting youth?
Curfe on his perjur'd airts, diffembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue, confcience, all exil'd?
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 wild?

But now the fupper crowns their fimple board,
The healfome porritch, chief of Scotia's food;
The foupe 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 kebbuck, fell,
And aft he's preft, and aft he ca's it guid;

The frugal Wifie, garrulous, will tell,

How 'twas a towmond auld fin' Lint was i' the belt.

The chearfu' 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 rev'rently is laid afide,

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ;
Thefe ftrains that once did fweet in Zion glide,

He wales a portion with judicious care;

"And let us worship GoD!" he fays, with folemn air.

They chaunt their artless notes in fimple guife;
They tune their hearts, by far the nobleft aim:
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rife,
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 thefe, Italian trills are tame;

The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unifon 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, Mofes bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal Bard did groaning lye,
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Ifaiah's wild feraphic fire;
Or other holy Seers that tune the facred lyre.

Perhaps the Chriftian 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 fervants fped;
The precepts fage they wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,

Saw in the fon a mighty Angel stand,

And hear'd 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 Hufband prays:
Hope "fprings exulting on triumphant wing,"*

That thus they all fhall 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 fuch fociety, 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 method and of art, When men difplay to congregations wide

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Power, incens'd, the pageant will defert, The pompous ftrain, the facerdotal ftole ; But haply in fome 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 rest:

The Parent-pair their fecret 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 fees the beft,

For them and for their little ones provide;

But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. From foenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad:

* Pope's Windsor Forest.

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,

"An honeft man's the nobleft 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,
Difguiling 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 warmeft wish to Heaven is fent!
Long may thy hardy fons of ruftic toil,

Be bleft with health and peace, and fweet content! And, O! may Heaven their fimple lives prevent From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile'

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous Populace may rife the while,
And ftand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd ifle.
O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,

That ftream'd thro' great unhappy Wallace' heart;
Who dar'd to, nobly, ftem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the fecond glorious part:
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, infpirer, guardian, and reward!)
O never, never Scotia's realin defert,

But ftill the Patriot and the Patriot-bard, In bright fucceffion raife, her ornament and guard!


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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