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Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 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 supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food : The soupe their only Hawkie does afford,
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : The dame brings forth in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid;
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell [bell. How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i’ the
The cheerfu’ supper 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 reverently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales à 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 heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compared with these, Italian thrills are tame;
The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.
The priestlike 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;
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 Babylon's doom pronounced by
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; [sphere. While circling time moves round in an eternal Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men displ
ons wide Devotion's every grace, except the heart!
* Pope's Windsor Forest.
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 enrol. Then homeward all take off their several way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm requestThat He who stills the raven's clamorous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide ; Butchiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur
springs, That makes her loved at home, revered 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 refined ! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil [tent!
Be blest with health and peace and sweet conAnd, Oh! 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, (Isle. And stand a wall of fire around their much loved
O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide
That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart! Who dared so nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 0 never, never Scotia's realm desert:
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard !
THE VILLAGE SUNDAY.
Festas in pratis vacat otioso
THERE is a sabbath for the man of cares:
Each virtue lulls, and Vice her painted crest