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XI.

But now the su per crowns their simple board!

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food; The soup the only hawkie does afford,

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cud: The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell, An' aft he's press'd, an' aft he ca's it good;

The frugal wifie garrulous will tell, How 'thas a towmond auld, sin 'lint was i’ the bell

XII.

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 rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearin thin an' bare ;
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

XIII.

Shey 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 beats the heav'nward flame,

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;

The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

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The priest-like 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.

XV.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in Heav'n the second naine,

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 Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heav'n'.

command.

XVI.

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Then, kneeling down, to Heav'n's eternal King,

The saint, the father, and the husband prays! llope “ 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,

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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,

In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert,

T'he pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haplv, in some cottage far apart,

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;

The youngling cottagers retire to rest; The parent-pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, That Ile who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,

And decks the 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 presido

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur spring

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd 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 heav'nly road,

The cottage leaves the palace far behind;

BURNS'S POEMS

What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,

Disguising of the wretch of human-kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!

-A

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 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-tard,
In bright succession rise, her ornaraent and guard

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,
Sprung from night, in darkness lost;
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour,
Fear not clouds will always low'r.

As youth and love, with sprightly dance,
Beneath thy morning star advance,
Pleasure with her siren air
May delude the thoughtless pair;
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup,
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.

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.

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