Anticipation forward points the view;

The mother, wi' her needle and her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel 's the new; 45 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

50

Their master's and their mistress's command
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,
And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play:
'And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night!
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel and assisting might:

They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.'

65 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 some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame 60 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;

With heart-struck anxious care enquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;

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

With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; 65 A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit 's no ill taen;

70

The father cracks of 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 sae grave; Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn 's respected like the lave.

O happy love! where love like this is found:
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!

75 I've paced much this weary, mortal round,

And sage 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,

80 In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.'

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!

85

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling, smooth!
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd?

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?

90 Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild?

95

But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The healsome parritch, chief of 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,
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid;
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell

How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.

100 The chearfu' supper 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 aside,

105 His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;

110

115

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a 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 heaven-ward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:

Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;

120 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;

125 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

130

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;

135 And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.

140

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;

While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

145 Compar'd with this, how poor religion's pride

In all the pomp of method 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,
150 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole:

155

160

But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the soul,
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:

The parent-pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks tne lily fair in flow'ry pride,

Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs,
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd 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 refin'd.

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

175 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And O! 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-lov'd isle.

185

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart,
Who dar'd to nobly stem 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 realm desert;
But still the patriot and the patriot-bard

In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

4

TO A MOUSE,

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785.
[From Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect (1786)]

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, | Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!

O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! 20
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, An' bleak December's winds ensuin,

Wi' murd'ring pattle!

40

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley,

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, An' forward, tho' I canna see,

For promis'd joy!

I guess an' fear!

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48

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL 1786.
[From Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect (1786)]

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

To spare thee now is past my pow'r, But now the share uptears thy bed,

Thou bonie gem.

And low thou lies!

28

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine no distant date;
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate,
52 Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight
Shall be thy doom!

48