His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing 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.

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 heav'nward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:

Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickled ears no heartfelt 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;
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.

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, was lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,

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And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.

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.

Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's every grace, except the heart!
The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;

But haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their several way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request,
That He who stills the raven's clamorous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flowery 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 loved at home, revered 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 heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;

What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native scil!.

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

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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,

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,
Who dared 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!

THE HOLY FAIR.

A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty observation;

And secret hung, with poison'd crust,

The dirk of defamation:

A mask that like the gorget show'd,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;

And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in religion.

HYPOCRISY À LA MODE.

UPON a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
An' snuff the caller air.

The risin' sun, owre Galston muirs,

Wi' glorious light was glintin';

The hares were hirplin' down the furrs,
The lav'rocks they were chantin'

Fu' sweet that day.

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As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin' up the way.

Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
But ane wi' lyart lining;

The third, that gaed a wee a-back,

Was in the fashion shining

Fu' gay that day.

The twa appear'd like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes;
Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin,
An' sour as ony slaes:

The third cam up, hap-stap-an'-lowp,
As light as ony lambie,

An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,
As soon as e'er she saw me,

Fu' kind that day.

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, 'Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,
But yet I canna name ye.'

Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak,
An' taks me by the hands,

'Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck
Of a' the ten commands

A screed some day.

'My name is Fun-your crony dear,
The nearest friend ye hae;

An' this is Superstition here,
An' that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
To spend an hour in daffin':

Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair,
We will get famous laughin'

At them this day.'

Quoth I, 'Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't;
I'll get my Sunday's sark on,
An' meet you on the holy spot;
Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!'
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,
An' soon I made me ready;

For roads were clad, frae side to side,
Wi' mony a wearie bodie

In droves that day.

Here farmers gash in ridin' graith

Gaed hoddin' by their cotters;

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There swankies young in braw braid-claith

Are springin' owre the gutters.

The lasses, skelpin' barefit, thrang,

In silks an' scarlets glitter,

Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,

An' farls bak'd wi' butter,

Fu' crump that day.

When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,

A greedy glow'r Black Bonnet throws,
An' we maun draw our tippence.

Then in we go to see the show:
On ev'ry side they're gath'rin';

Some carryin' deals, some chairs an' stools,

An' some are busy bleth'rin'

Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,
An' screen our country gentry;
There racer Jess an' twa-three whores
Are blinkin' at the entry.

Here sits a raw o' tittlin' jades,

Wi' heavin' breasts an' bare neck, An' there a batch o' wabster lads, Blackguardin' frae Kilmarnock

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For fun this day.

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