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11. Happy, ye sons of busy life, Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard ! Ev'n when the wished end 's deny'd, Yet while the busy means are ply'd,
They bring their own reward :
Unfitted with an aim,
Forget each grief and pain ;
Find every prospect vain.
Within his humble cell,
Beside his crystal well !
By unfrequented stream,
His thoughts to heav'n on high, As wand'ring, meand'ring,
He views the solemn sky.
Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd
Less fit to play the part;
With self-respecting art :
Which I too keenly taste,
Or human love or hate,
At perfidy ingrate!
To care, to guilt unknown!
of others, or my own!
Like linnets in the bush,
That active man engage!
Of dim-declining age !
And hail and rain does blaw;
The blinding sleet and snaw :
And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest
And pass the heartless day.
The joyless winter-day.
Than all the pride of May:
My griefs it seems to join,
Their fate resembles mine!
These woes of mine fulfil,
Because they are thy Will!
• Dr. Young
T'hen all I want (0, do thou grant
This one request of mine :) Since to enjoy thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
The short but simple annals of the poor.
I. My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride I scorn each selfish end;
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ;
What A**** in a cottage would have been ; Ah! tho’his worth unknown, far happier there, I
The short’ning winter-day is near a close ;
The black’ning trains o' craws to their repose
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,
This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hame
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ;
'To meet their Dad, wi' Aichterin noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily,
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil,
At service out, amang the farmers roun’; Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e’e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown,
Or deposite her sair-won perny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers : The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears;