THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

Anticipation forward points the view.

The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears,

Gars' auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their master's an' their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent1 hand,
An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play.
66 An', oh! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night!
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,

Implore His counsel and assisting might:

97

They never sought in vain that sought the r aright!"
But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor,
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name
While Jenny hafflins3 is afraid to speak;

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

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;

A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,
But, blate and laithfu'," scarce can weel behave;
The woman, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' 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!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare-
"If Heav'n a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,

"Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale!"

1 Makes.

2 Diligent.

5 Bashful.

Sheepish.

3 Half.
4 Talks.
7 The rest,

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart-
A wretch a villain! lost to love and truth!
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?
Then pants the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild.

But now the supper crowns their simple board,

The halesome parritch, chief o' 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'd3 kebbuck,' fell, An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid;

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell

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

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' 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:
Compar'd with these, Italian thrills 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;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie

4 Cheese.

1 Cow.
2 Partition wall. 3 Well-saved.
A twelvemonth. • Since the flax was in flower.
• Chooses.

7 Grey locks.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 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 Heav'n 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;

99

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heav'n't 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.

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, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 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 enrol.

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 He, 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 preside. 1 Pope's "Windsor Forest."-R. B.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs
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;
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

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

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, oh, 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-lov'd Isle.

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!

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.'

A DIRGE.

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth
Along the barks of Ayr,

I spy'd a man, whose aged step
Seem'd weary, worn with care;

His face was furrow'd o'er with years,

And hoary was his hair.

1 Several of the poems were produced for the purpose of bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the author. He used to re mark to me, that he could not well conceive a more mortifying pic. ture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, "Man was made to mourn," was composed.-G. B.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?
Began the rev'rend sage;

Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage?

Or, haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of Man.

The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And ev'ry time has added proofs,
That Man was made to mourn.

Oh man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force give nature's law.
That Man was made to mourn.

Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right.

But see him on the edge of life,

WithCares and sorrows worn;

Then age and want, oh! ill-match'd pair!

Show Man was made to mourn.

A few seem favourites of fate,

In pleasure's lap carest;

Yet, think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.

But, oh! what crowds in ev'ry land
Are wretched and forlorn.

Thro' weary life this lesson learn,

That Man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!

More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!

101