But now the supper crowns their simple board, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 100 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 105 His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; And 'Let us worship God!' he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; The priest-like father reads the sacred page, Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; 125 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; 135 And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 145 Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; Then homeward all take off their several way; 155 The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 160 Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: 165 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, 170 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, 175 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And 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, 180 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; 185 (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! (1-72) This poem shows "the true pathos and sublime | Of human life." In the Odyssey, Ulysses says to Nausicaa, "There is neither anything better nor more beautiful than a man and a woman inhabiting a home, making it one by the heart." What poem previously read has given Burns the formal unity of his poem? Classify the poetical imagery of Milton, Gray, and Goldsmith's, that is present in the poem. (73-81) Burns' “ sage experience never possessed "wisdom's root." His father was the prototype of the sire who "reads the sacred page." The worship at the “ingle” is an imitation of service in the Covenanter Church. (165) What similar sentiment has been expressed in “The Deserted Village"? What poem was written at Dumfries that shows "the prophetic soul | Of the wide world dreaming on things to come," and which has for its theme (166) "An honest man's the noblest work of God"? Note Burns' admiration for Pope. Note the form of verse in which the poem is written, and the stanzas which are faultily constructed. Compare this poem in theme with Whittier's "Snowbound." Consult a glossary of Lowland Scotch for the dialect words. TO A MOUSE On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough, November, 1785. O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Wi' bickering brattle! 5 I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, ΙΟ I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 15 A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessing wi' the lave, Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 25 Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, weary winter comin' fast, 30 An' An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past, That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 35 To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 40 But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy. |