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النشر الإلكتروني

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;
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 Babylon'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 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.

to cong

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 !



Festas in pratis vacat otioso
Cam bove pagus.

The leisure village, jocund in the fields,
Keeps holiday, together with the steer,
Loosen'd from toil.


THERE is a sabbath for the man of cares:
Then wail not, thou whom daily toils oppress!
There is a resting-place for bim who fares
Upon the rugged road to happiness !
Scorn, if ye will, ye sons of carelessness,
Who eat your bread with worldly plenty's leaven,
This day, the poor man's joy—your heaviness;
To shun its thoughtful calm, by uproar driven,
Your ways bespeak, I ween, ill neighbourhood

with Heaven!
Scorn, if ye will! though never mote ye feel
That scorn return'd into each thoughtless breast,
Whene'er that Searcher of the heart shall steal
Into its chambers, where unweeting rest

Each virtue lulls, and Vice her painted crest
Nods o'er the couch—Yet, if I read aright,
That heavenly watchman will pursue his quest
With his lamp-burning spirit, 'till the night
Of evil, ye have loved, stand trembling in its light!
0, could ye learn to love the simple joys,
Simple, but pure, which I have chanced to find,
As wandering, I have fled the city's noise
To quiet fields, there most to dwell inclined
Among the swainlike folks and shepherd kind:
There hath the world's most ancient holiday
Oft led my footsteps mid their cots to wind;
And there, the muse, framing her rustic lay
To oaten pipe, thus rudely did of late essay.
The Sabbath's dawn, bright peering on the skies,
From orient hills, the gladsome peasant sees ;
Who deems it time from sleepy couch to rise,
Waked by the carols in his cottage trees.
And certes much his rising thoughts must please,
That, after all his weekly hard turmoil,
This morn will bring another day of ease; [toil,
Bless'd day! which Heaven itself has freed from
And hallow'd into rest for him who delves the soil.
Right gleeful wight, the welcome morn he hails,
In which no sound of busy din he hears ;
No echoing barn resounds the thumping flails ;
No labouring team across the plain appears ;
Ne voice of early hind salutes his ears :
Nought, save the bell, which from yon ivied tower
(That scant its humble time-worn summit rears
O’er many an elm, which does its walls embower),
Bids village swains prepare to meet at sermon hour.

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