XI. But now the super crowns their simple board! That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cud: How 'thas a towmond auld, sin 'lint was i' the bell XII. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearin thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, XIII. They chant their artless notes in simple guise, XIV. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Or, how the Royal Bard did groaning lie XV. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heav'n's command. XVI. Then, kneeling down, to Heav'n's eternal King, No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, * Pope's Windsor Forest. In such society, yet still more dear; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere XVII. Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul. And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol! XVIII. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, For them and for their little ones provide, But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside XIX. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, And certes in fair virtue's heav'nly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, XX. O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heav'n is sent, Long may the hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content And, O! may Heav'n 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, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle XXI. O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart Or nobly die, the second glorious part; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, VERSES WRITTEN IN FRIAR'S-CARSE HERMITAGE, ON NITH-SIDE THOU whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deck'd in silken stole, Grave these counsels on thy soul Life is but a day at most, Fear not clouds will always low'r. As youth and love, with sprightly dance, May delude the thoughtless pair; As thy day grows warm and high, Life's meridian flaming nigh, Dost thou spurn the humble vale? Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? Check thy climbing step, elate, Evils lurk in felon wait; Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, Soar around each cliffy hold, While cheerful peace, with linnet song, Chants the lowly dells among. |